


A Shield of Strength

by Barbarian2020



Category: For Honor (Video Game)
Genre: Faction war, Knights - Freeform, Mount Ignis, Multi, Vikings, Volcano Cultists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 117,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbarian2020/pseuds/Barbarian2020
Summary: Warlord and Jarl, Herleif Bjornson, receives an invitation to raid deep into Ashfeld, but the fires of war obscure the path before him with death and treachery. Upon the war-torn slopes of Mount Ignis, he will make his stand and fight for all that he believes in, and everyone he holds dear. A Warlord is the shield of his people, and he will not fall.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue: Duel in the Snow

A true Warlord knows how to use his shield well. 

Strong and versatile, a Warlord's shield was made to protect as well as to press the attack. It is his power, the foundation from which he strikes with his sword and from where he makes his stand, holding the line against those that would cause him harm. Duty, honor and strength; these are the virtues a man must learn if he is to earn the ancient title of Warlord, and to carry his shield to battle in the service of all.

With duty came a purpose, to fight for and defend the lands of his birth and the glory of his ancestors. With honor came satisfaction, of a life well lived and a saga worthy of remembrance. Strength gives way to courage, to rise above any challenge and become more then you once were.

Herleif Bjornson knew how to use his shield well. It was as familiar a comfort to him as his own family, knowing every nick and dent across its broad surface. His shield was a part of him, a protector and a companion through every trial he faced. It was a constant reminder of the virtues he had sworn his life to, earning his place among the noble Warlord's of Valkenheim's battle scarred past.

Staring over the brim of his shield, Herleif circled his opponent with practiced ease. All around them the dead and dying lay scattered in blood-stained snow. High above the sun shone brightly and the gods looked down upon the battlefield, deciding who among the fallen would be worthy enough to feast at their side in Valhalla by days end. Crows were already circling in the sky, hungry black dots eager to descend upon the fresh corpses of men young and old come out to fight. The clash of weapons was fading in the air now, the skirmish stretched thin, leaving the remaining warriors to fight one another under the fear that perhaps they may never earn themselves a death in battle and allowed into the golden hall to sit alongside their ancestors. Herleif had no such fear. The rewards of the gods would come to him in time, his death already fated just like it was for every man, but for now he was perfectly content to live and see the sun rise again tomorrow. 

“I will raise a cup to your memory tonight, Warlord!” called out the vicious Raider, grinning at Herleif from across a white stretch of churned up snow. He was tall and broad, as most Raiders were, with curved bull horns rising up from his helmet and bore the image of Odin's ravens in dark ink upon his chest. He stood with an air of utter confidence among so many dead, casually shouldering his great axe and waving across the bloody snow with an outstretched hand. “You've lasted a good while longer then the rest your kin. I am pleased to know that it is my axe that will usher you into Odin's hall. Tell me your name warrior, and I shall toast to you tonight as I feast in hall of my Jarl!” 

Herleif rolled his shoulders as he kept his shield up in front of him, sword at the ready, feet braced in the snow. Sunlight was glinting off the shine of white frost and the gleam of polished metal, but the protection of his helm provided enough shade that he could see his enemy clear enough, including that amused grin the Raider wore under his long beard. He was tired from the fight, but mostly he was tired of seeing others wear that same overconfident smirk while so many warriors died needlessly around them. “How about we put down our weapons and have a drink instead? Then I shall tell you! It seems to me a more fine day for drinking then it is for killing my own countrymen, and my sword has already had its fill of blood!”

The Raider chuckled, stroking the braid of his brown gray beard between his fingers. “You speak nonsense.” he called out, voice loud and bold, “Killing is what we Vikings do! From now until the Great Wolf finally swallows the sun!”

The corners of Herleif's lips twitched as he frowned. “Seems to me that such a cruel day has already arrived! Surely our enemies to the south and east would rejoice to see us spill our own blood in the snow. What fools we must look like to them!”

Now the grin slipped away from under the Raider's helm, and Herleif could see the amused glint in his eyes turn dark. “Did you come all this way to talk, Warlord, or to fight?” he roared angrily. Brandishing his deadly axe in both hands, the Raider lowered his head and charged forward at Herleif across the snow. “We are Vikings! We fight and we die, for Valhalla!”

Herleif hunkered down behind his shield, shifting his feet in the slick snow, presenting a strong target as the furious Raider came across the field. Enemies until the bitter end it seemed, no thought of kinship through shared culture, ancestry or belief. There was only the thirst for blood and the glory of battle that all men felt they were owed. The Raider hunched down as he charged, lowering his shoulder to make a grab as Herleif stood stalwart against his wrath.

Strength before the Raider's fury. With strength a Warlord's shield could not fall.

The long horns set upon the Raider's helmet had nearly crashed into the shield as Herleif slid out of the way. Pivoting on his heel, he watched as the enemy warrior ran passed him, leaning back to avoid the outstretched arm ready to pull him off his feet. Herleif took a breath to steady himself, eyes turning down to the broad back of the Raider now exposed to him. His hand tightened around the grip of his sword, the blade slashing down and opening a sharp red line across his foe's back.

Screaming in pain and rage, the Raider stumbled but managed to stay on his feet before turning and swinging his axe back at Herleif. This time Herleif was prepared to use his shield, letting its flat surface absorb the blow and give him a chance to take a step back. The Raider gave chase, swinging his axe again and again, roaring like a beast as he pressed the attack. There was a terrible rage burning inside the Raider now, hot anger and a powerful desire to cut down the defiant Warlord that dared stand against him in the sight of the gods.

Herleif's teeth rattled in his head as he maneuvered his shield to block each viscous strike. It was made from good solid spruce wood, the surface was covered with darkly tanned hide to help soften the blow of any oncoming attack. He gripped the single handle firmly, hand protected safe behind the round metal boss that was fixed in the shield's center, making the shield easy to rotate and move as needed during a fight. Painted across the shield's face was the many arms of the Vegvisir Compass, a reminder for Herleif to never lose his way as a warrior. 

Putting his shoulder behind the last hit of the Raider's axe, Herleif turned his shield away and lunged, striking forward with his metal helm. For a brief moment his vision blurred as he crashed headlong into his enemy, sending the Raider stumbling back. It was an old Warlord technique, known by all who fought under the ancient title. To some it was considered a foolish trick, one that could leave a Warlord vulnerable if he wasn't careful, but Herleif was practiced enough in his skill and timing to make the headbutt land.

Before the Raider could find his footing again Herleif followed up his bash with a quick thrust of his sword. The sharp blade bit into the Raider's arm, making the large warrior retreat back with a hiss of pain as blood flowed freely now from two open wounds. Now it was Herleif's turn to press the attack. Keeping his shield up, he struck swiftly with his sword, aiming for the bare arms and torso that the Raider felt no need to protect, trusting in the gods to protect him rather then armor. Even while wounded though, the Raider was a formidable opponent. Each strike was blocked or turned away by the long haft of the Raider's axe, and the efforts of Herleif's attack barred little fruit except for making new footprints in untouched snow. 

Herleif paused, stopping his advance and catching his breath. Some might say it was foolish to give the Raider a chance to steady himself, but there was no reason for Herleif to push himself so recklessly, not when it would most likely only lead him to his death. He would trust in his shield, and with any luck a little protection from the gods as well.

Duty, honor and strength. The title of Warlord was earned through the mastery of these lessons, and Herleif had learned them well.

The Raider lunged again, a powerful strike coming from the right which meant to split shield, armor, meat and bone. It was a killing blow, one to put an end to this fight once and for all. Herleif braced himself, planting his feet as firmly as he could in the crunching snow. Timing was everything. He needed the Raider to commit to the swing, to be so blinded by his rage so that he saw nothing else but his axe cleaving Herleif's skull in two. Anger would feed the Raider's actions, and hopefully deliver victory into Herleif's hands. 

Metal clanged on metal as Herleif's sword clashed with the Raider's great axe, parrying the attack. For a moment it felt that the strength behind the Raider's swing might overwhelm Herleif's block, but the sword stalled the axe just enough for him to push the cleaving blade away with his shield, sending it wide and leaving the Raider wide open. Herleif reacted quickly, striking with both sword and shield across the Raider's chest and face. His blade cut open flesh, and the brim of his shield struck across the Raider's jaw, sending the brute reeling back. 

Hot blood fell upon the snow at the Raider's feet, steaming as it cooled upon the frozen ground. The once confident warrior slouched forward, wavering on his feet until he managed to keep himself up with the help of his weapon. He shook his head as he tried to clear his vision, sticky blood and spit drooling from his mouth and into his dark beard. The dark ravens upon his chest had been neatly cut by a long thin line, separating the bird's head from body as its black outline disappeared behind a shower of red. The Raider blinked under his metal helm, trying to focus in on Herleif but not quite seeing him clearly. “Bastard...” he mumbled, a splatter of blood flying into the air.

Herleif kept his distance, shield kept raised in front of him. No matter how the fight might lull, or how defeated his enemy may appear, he knew that nothing was truly over until the Raider was still and his soul passed on to Valhalla. Flexing his hand around the grip of his bloody sword, he nodded towards his mighty foe and offered the only words that needed to be said between them. “Finish this with honor.”

The Raider's eyes seemed to focus on him then. The fingers that had so loosely gripped the haft of his axe tightened and found purpose. With what strength he had left the Raider stood up straight, staring across the sparkling red and white snow he looked at the Warlord who met him bravely on the field of battle. Everything between them was quiet. The sounds of the skirmish were soft and faded through the trees, far away. It was just the two of them now, knowing that one would soon be feasting with the gods. Then the Raider charged.

“Valhalla!” he roared, rushing forward with all speed to meet his fate, axe gripped tightly in his hands. He seemed to draw the last of his strength from the gods themselves, leaping up into the air, axe raised in one last effort to come out as the victor of this duel. The axe was poised to strike, ready to cleave down upon the Warlord in a series of terrible blows driven by all the fury the Raider had left within him.

Herleif dropped low, legs braced and his stance strong like a stone. He did his best to shrink behind his shield, giving his opponent the smallest target available as the deadly axe descended upon him. “Odin!” he cried, invoking the one eyed god to witness his deeds. 

There was a great clash of weapons, and it was as if the thunder god himself had struck with his hammer to bring the fight to an end. 

The shield, the steadfast weapon of his ancient title, held firm. The axe glanced off the sturdy flat surface, knocked away as Herleif lifted the shield up and slashed out with his sword. Red metal flashed, striking swift until it was suddenly brought to a halt deep in the Raider's belly, a sideways swing that cut deep into muscle, bone and intestine. All the fire and fury left them in that moment, and suddenly there was just the stillness of snow as they gazed upon one another, locked in a deadly embrace.

Herleif took a step back, pulling his sword free and letting the Raider fall to the ground and sprawl out onto his back. The great axe slipped from his hand, sinking into the snow just out of reach. Herleif stood above him, looking down at the warriors broken body. The Raider's chest jumped and heaved, struggling to fill his lungs with air as blood bubbled up between his lips. The thrill of the fight had left them both in an instant, the Raider faced now with his own mortality and Herleif wondering what it had all been for. Kneeling next to the Raider, he first laid down his sword, having no further use for it, and removed his helmet so that he may face this fallen warrior as a man. 

Leaning over the Raider, Herleif lifted his head and removed his horn helmet as well. The Raider coughed, sputtering dark blood over his lips, but his eyes turned upward towards Herleif and blinked. “Do you hear the gods calling you home?” Herleif asked, his voice quiet and kind. 

That earned him a pained laugh, the Raider's ruined body shaking with the effort. “Yes...” he said weakly, but there was a twinkle in his eye that seemed to remain even as his life slowly faded away, “and... and the calls of your b-brothers... who I will call my own... now that,” more blood splattered as he coughed, “now that the sun seems to set... on my time.”

Herleif smiled softly, “Tell them that Herleif Bjornson will drink a toast to their memory, and will mourn them fondly. As I will for you too. Shall you tell me your name, now that I have given mine?”

The Raider blinked, raising his head. “Sitvek... S-Sitvek Stone-Breaker...” he said with as much pride as he could muster. 

Nodding, Herleif gripped Sitvek's shoulder, squeezing it gently. “I will remember you, Sitvek Stone-Breaker, along with the rest of my fallen kin. Tonight I will name you when I make a toast to those deserving to be honored by all men who love the gods.” 

It pained Herleif to know that he was sending such a strong and powerful Viking on his way to the gods. With the everlasting wars against the Knights of Ashfeld and the Samurai of the Myre, feuds and skirmishes between the Viking clans were nothing but a waste of lives to his mind. It made them weak, fighting among themselves when they should have been standing strong together against those that would see them all put in the ground. Herleif took no pleasure in raising his sword against the other clans of Valkenheim, but when warriors from another hold had come into his lands looking to raid, he'd had no choice but to meet them in the defense of his people. That was what being a Warlord meant. Service to all until the end, even when it pained his heart to do so.

Turning his head, Sitvek looked towards his axe. Reaching out, it seemed that he did not have the strength left in him to grab hold of the wooden shaft. His hands shook, and his body was quickly turning as pale as the snow around him. Having no cause to give further insult to a man already dying, Herleif helped the fallen Raider, lifting the heavy axe into his weak hand and helping lay it across Sitvek's chest. That seemed to put Sitvek at ease, and his labored breathing seemed to come on more smoothly with the feeling of his weapon safe in his grip. 

“I am ready...” Sitvek said quietly, eyes turning back up towards the sky as the light slowly faded from their sight, “Honor to you... Herleif... Bjorn... son...” A last breath was released from between Sitvek's lips as he looked up to the gods to receive him, and he was gone.

Herleif sighed, his lips pressed into a tight line as he gave the Raider's shoulder a last squeeze. “Honor to you, Sitvek Stone-Breaker. Be at peace, and feast well until I come join you.” Touching his fingers to Sitvek's brow, he pressed the warrior's eyes closed for the final time.

Cleaning his blade of blood with white snow, Herleif rose up to his feet and looked around him. He had survived to fight another day it seemed. The Warlord virtues had served him well, along with his shield and training. Donning his helmet, he tracked through the piled snow and bodies to regroup with his warriors, checking to see who was still alive and tending to the wounded. To be a Warlord meant that he led from the front, and was there to carry the burden of battle alongside all those who followed him. The crows still circled over head, slowly descending to pick at the remains of those who lay still in the snow. Herleif would have his dead pulled off the battlefield quickly and see that they were given the appropriate rights for their final journey. In other holds perhaps the invading force would have been left to freeze in the night as punishment for their transgressions, but he would not leave the dead to such a dishonorable fate, even if they had attacked him unprovoked. Sitvek's body would not be a feast for the crows on this day if Herleif could help it. 

Traveling among the dead Herleif's heart broke for such a terrible loss of life. Winter was upon them, and those that made it through the deathly cold winds of the north would soon be called upon to defend against the invading forces of both the Knights and Samurai, or to go raiding for wealth and supplies. What strength could they hope to muster if they were too busy killing each other before winter's bite could truly take hold? It was a question that weighed heavily on Herleif's mind the longer he looked after his clan through from one season to the next. 

Duty, honor and strength. These virtues had served him well in the past and they would serve him still as he walked along his path to the day he was fated to die. A Warlord was the shield that protected his people at all costs. Herleif would not fail in that endeavor. 

This was the path that Herleif had chosen to follow. Like his father before, and his father before him, he would stay true to a Warlord's duty. He had sworn this before the gods. For his family. For his people. 

For honor. 

The crows circled high above in the bright blue sky, and Herleif Bjornson rejoined with his warriors to see them through to victory. He was glad to serve them well.


	2. A Golden Opportunity

Herleif Bjornson ran a soft cloth down the gleaming blade of his Ulfberht sword, polishing it to a sparkling shine. The weight of the metal was familiar in his hand, like grasping an old friend in greeting. The black leather of the grip felt smooth under his fingers, and the amber stone set into the pommel gleamed liked liquid fire in the light from the windows. Such a sword was beautiful when not stained with blood, and a terrible reminder of the price for glory when it was. Runes of protection and power had been etched along the bronze surface of the hilt, meant to invoke the power of the gods to bring him good fortune in war. It was an excellent weapon, passed down through his line from father to son, until it had come to his hand. 

That legacy scared Herleif now more than facing a wall of a thousand strong shields and deadly spears. With it came a weight of responsibility to his ancestors, to his people, one that grew heavier with each passing year. Would his son hold this sword in his own hand someday? An heirloom to be cherished, maintained and treated with honor, just as Herleif was doing now. Or would fate leave it forgotten on some distant battlefield, or worse, taken as a prize by from his own cold hand by some nameless enemy. Like so many things in life, it was a fate known only to the Norns. 

Herleif could see his own reflection in the blade as he gave it one last pass with the cloth. The wrinkles under his eyes blending with the scars on his cheek as they disappeared into his dark brown beard. He was getting old, each passing season bringing closer the moment when he would leave this world and pass on this sword to his eldest son. It was a sobering thought, even in the quiet stillness of the morning.

Rising from his seat he placed the sword back into the wooden case that also held the black and golden scabbard. With a light touch and heavy reverence he set the blade down onto a fine blue cloth that lined the inside of the case, giving the weapon a respectful nod before closing the lid. A Warlord's sword was more then just a weapon for killing men. It was a symbol of his status and power, just like the shield that he would carry in his other hand.

His armor was arranged on a finely made wooden stand next to where the sword was displayed. Looking over the polished set, the empty eyes of the helmet stared back at him. Curved horns slid back against the domed top, and lining the center were the spines of a sea serpent who's face was fixed in a primal snarl to stare down any foe that stood against him. His pauldrons were made from heavy hide and leather over chainmail sleeves, and the cuirass was made up of tightly woven lamellar plates, complete with a broad belt around the middle. He'd had the set commissioned upon his ascension to becoming Jarl of his lands and leader of clan Tundra Tusk after his father. 

It was on that day as well that he had become more then just a Warlord, more then just another shield in the wall. It was a title that many seasoned warriors of Valkenheim held, but only a few were considered true lords of men and sat in a high seat at the head of a great hall. Herleif's eyes glanced up to his shield as it hung upon the wall over his sword, the image of the Vegvisir Compass clear upon its surface. The damage of the Raider's axe had been repaired, leaving behind no trace of the fierce battle with Sitvek Stone-Breaker.

Herleif enjoyed spending time in his personal armor room. It was quiet, and peaceful, a place to reflect on the virtues of his people and the duty he carried as Jarl. They were familiar to him, his weapons and armor, like old friends that he trusted just as much as any of his most loyal warriors.

It seemed that for now though his peace was not meant to last, as a housecarl dipped his head into the room. Herleif bid him to enter, and the guard approached with a respectful bow of his head. “My Jarl, men have been spotted approaching from the mountains. They come bearing weapons and dressed in their war gear. Your brother has been seen leading them.”

The initial dread that Herleif felt rise up in him at the guard's news of warriors approaching his gates came and went with that last bit of information. “Is he now? And it would be Bilrost banners that they are flying?” He asked, to which the housecarl quickly nodded in confirmation. Patting the housecarl on the shoulder, Herleif refrained from scolding the young warrior on his poor phrasing. “We should probably let them in then. Have the gate opened for their arrival. I'll have a word with my wife to have the hall prepared. There will be a feast tonight to welcome my brother home, I'm sure!” he exclaimed with a smile. 

That seemed to put a smile on the houscarl's face, and the young man gave another bow before he hurried off to carry out Herleif's orders. The smile slipped from Herleif's face after the guard had gone. Giving a deep sigh, he wrapped a dark blue cloak with golden knotting around his shoulders and spared his war gear one last look before leaving the quiet room.

Herleif's home was already bustling with activity as he made his way down the hall. It seemed that word of their visitors had made the rounds as quick as wild fire on a dry summer's day, and servants were busy making rooms ready and gathering food and drink before the warriors arrived. The sun was shining in through the windows, adding to the light offered by the candles along the wall. It made the wooden hall feel warm and comfortable, something that Herleif contributed more to the efforts of his wife then any of his own. The great hall of Brosmegard might be from where he ruled his hold of Bilrost, but as a home it belonged to Audhilda.

He came upon her at the entry way, speaking to a few of her handmaidens and gesturing this way and that as she gave instruction. No doubt she had already thrown herself headlong into the preparations for tonight's impromptu feast. Like a seasoned commander Audhilda effectively saw that all of her plans were carried out to the letter and without mistakes. No doubt Herleif's brother would scarcely realize just how much effort went into showing him the appropriate hospitality he was due on his return from wandering Valkenheim. 

Herleif smiled as he looked upon his wife, forever amazed that he had been worthy enough to win her hand in marriage all those years ago. Since then she had given him two sons and a daughter, and a life spent in happiness at each other's side, which to him was everything a man could ever ask of his wife. Audhilda's head was wrapped by a fine blue and yellow embroidered cloth, but what strands of hair that could be seen falling down her back shone like gold under the sunlight that came in through the hall's open door. Her keys hung from her waist upon a ornate belt, a symbol of her power and status as caretaker of the hall. He waited to approach until Audhilda had given her instructions and sent her handmaidens on their tasks, opening his arms and bringing her into his embrace. “Next time there is cause for battle, I should just send you in my place to command the warriors while I stay behind myself to tend to the hall and the children.”

Audhilda chuckled as she wrapped her own arms around her husband and rested her head against his chest. “And drink all of our mead too, I'm sure,” she smiled. Herleif laughed and nodded, knowing that she was wise to his tricks. Audhilda lifted her chin and looked up at him with a pleading expression. “Would it be too much to ask that your brother at least send word before he comes to visit. He's sent the entire village into a frenzy with this sudden arrival, as if all of Ashfeld was marching on our gates.”

Herleif slid his hands along Audhilda's arms and gave a sympathetic sigh. “Gunnar enjoys catching people by surprise. He thinks it gives credit to his path as a wandering Raider. Also, he is an ass.”

That got a brighter laugh from Audhilda, which only made Herleif feel better knowing that he had her by his side. His brother Gunnar would not have come back from his wandering without a reason, especially since he was bringing other men of the hold with him. Tradition dictated that only a Jarl could call men to arms from the wilds and villages of his hold. That Gunnar would bring them to on his own and ready for battle only meant that he believed he was doing Herleif a favor and saving time. What Gunnar thought he was saving time for had yet to be seen.

As if reading his thoughts, Audhilda slipped back and gazed out the entryway of the hall to the courtyard beyond. “What do you think he is up to, gathering so many warriors without your word?” She frowned as she pondered upon the possible answer, eyes squinting out into the morning light.

“Where are our children? They should be here to give greeting to their uncle.” Herleif said, looking around them. There was a commotion growing outside the hall from the heart of the village, meaning that Gunnar and the men had probably made it through the gates and were making their way up the hill through the village.

As if being summoned up from thin air, Herleif and Audhilda's daughter Astrid and youngest son Erling came running to them down the stairs that led to the upper floors of the hall. At the same time Bjorn, their first born son and named after Herleif's father, came running in through the open front door of the hall from the yard. “Father! Father!” Bjorn called excitedly as he rushed to Herleif's side, “Uncle Gunnar has come down from the mountains! He's brought warriors with him too! They fly banners from all over the hold!” 

Herleif gritted his teeth as he slapped his hands down on Bjorn's shoulders, holding him close as he looked out towards the village and saw the first glint of spears and waving banners above the rooftops and between the houses. “Yes boy, I can hear them. You know that that means, yes?”

“That we get to have a feast?” Astrid asked softly as she slipped her little hand into Audhilda's.

“Right you are, my darling. We will feast all night long, you can bet on that. And I'm sure your uncle will have a tale or two for you as well, eh?” Herleif grinned, feeling the excitement radiating from his children. Audhilda gave him a bit of a look at the prospect of letting their children stay up all night at a party of drunken warriors, but Herleif just smiled and shrugged as the sound of marching footsteps grew louder. 

By now a crowd of villagers and servants had formed in the hall and outside the buildings that surrounded the courtyard. Everyone was eager to welcome their kinsmen to Brosmegard from the surrounding villages of the hold. Many hadn't seen each other from before winter, when last they had all gathered to defend their lands against invading raiders. As the warriors came into view and began to march into the courtyard a great and joyous cheer rose up from the surrounding villagers, waving and clapping men on the back as they passed by.

Of all the warriors making their way up the path, there was one who stood taller then the rest. Gunnar the Bear, fierce Raider of Valkenheim and proud warrior of clan Tundra Tusk. He walked proudly at the head of the column, great axe slung over one shoulder as he greeted a few familiar faces along the way. Like all Raiders, he wore no armor or protection other then the heavy fur lined pauldrons over his shoulders and the broad studded belt across his waist. His bare chest was tattooed with the symbol of Thor's hammer, and he wore a small medal medallion of the same symbol around his neck. 

“Hail, brother!” Gunnar roared, hefting his axe into the air and laughing merrily as he saw Herleif and his family standing in the hall's entrance. Looking behind him, Gunnar gestured at the group of warriors that followed him. “Look what I have brought you! Look upon your fine warriors! The finest in all of Valkenheim I say!” he cried. That earned him a loud cheer from the men who marched behind, and they raised their spears or knocked them against their and shields in appreciation.

Stepping out from behind his son, Herleif welcomed his younger brother home with open arms. “Gunnar! How is my little brother?” he smiled as he embraced his brother and smacked him on the back, to which Gunnar surprised him by lifting him right off the ground with a hearty laugh. 

“I'm ready for a feast!” Gunnar roared, setting his brother back down and greeted the rest of his family. His hug for Audhilda was much more gentle and respectful, but each of the children enjoyed being picked up and tossed into the air by their uncle, who was a giant in their eyes. 

“You are doing well then,” Audhilda asked politely, welcoming her brother by law into her home, “I imagine that you have traveled far. I must admit we are surprised by your visit. Herleif and I had thought that perhaps you would raid go with the Warborn this spring and raid east against the Samurai?”

Gunnar shook his head as he grinned and ruffled Bjorn's hair. “No. The Warborn still try to honor the peace Jarl Stigandr had with the Daimyo and Lord-Warden from years ago. They are hardly the clan they once were, growing old and fat in their halls instead of raiding. I have my sights set on loftier goals, ones much closer to home now.” 

That revelation caused Herleif to share a look with Audhilda, but they each kept their lips tight as Gunnar laughed with the children. Astrid and Erling jumped up together at Gunnar's sides, grabbing for his hands to pull him into the hall. “Tell us Uncle, tell us! Did you fight any Jotunn in the mountains?” Astrid asked excitedly.

“Or a dragon, guarding an ancient treasure hoard?” Erling added, his eyes wide with wonder.

Gunnar walked with them, laughing heartily all the way. “Aye, that I did children, that I did. And I shall tell you about it all too, just after your father offers me a much needed drink,” he grinned, winking over at Herleif.

Bjorn pipped up quickly at that, his interest clearly peaked. “I would have a drink too father! I would like to test myself against Uncle in a drinking contest!” he beamed, his eagerness giving way to youthful overconfidence. 

Herleif smiled at his son, but a rather stern look from Audhilda had it slipping away in favor of a more conscious expression. “Perhaps later son. Closer to nightfall when we can just scoop you up off the floor and slip you into bed, eh? We at least want to make sure you make it through supper tonight.” 

With their greetings made, Herleif led his brother further into the hall that they had grown up in together when their father was Jarl. Horns and a pitcher of ale were brought, and Audhilda took the children so that the brothers could discuss matters privately, much to young Bjorn's dismay. Outside in the yard they could still hear the clatter of men as they made to settle into the village. “I will see to it that the warriors you arrived with are cared for and found room.” Audhilda said, and then left Herleif and Gunnar to themselves in the feasting hall.

Gunnar removed his helmet and set it on the long table that he and Herleif sat at together in the main drinking hall, settling himself down on the bench. His long dark brown hair was braided down his back, with his beard similarly fashioned off his chin. Herleif sat opposite him, pouring a horn full of ale for each of them before handing one to his brother. “Skol,” he smiled, knocking their horns together before taking a long drink. 

“Skol!” Gunnar echoed, then finished off his own horn in a few loud gulps. He gave a satisfied sigh and smack of his lips, reaching for the pitcher to refill his horn and Herleif's. For a moment they each seemed content enough to just sit and drink, but there were too many questions brewing in Herleif's mind for him to let it last.

“So...” he began, looking at his brother over the rim of his drinking horn.

“Hmm?” Gunnar's brows furrowed, ale and foam dripping from his long braided beard as he belched and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can a man not have a drink first before things must give way to talk? Leading men is thirsty work, brother,” he chuckled.

Herleif drained his horn and set it down on the table before him. “I would have us talk now. I'm eager to learn the reason as to why you have gathered together the warriors of my hold and marched them to my front door,” he said firmly, a single dark brow raised as he stared across the table at his brother. Gunnar stared back, his horn held up in the air near his parted lips. He nodded and looked away, taking another drink before leaving his horn empty on the table with his brother's. Herleif eyed Gunnar for another moment, letting the weight of his words hang in the air between them. He was glad to see his brother again, truly he was, but the manner in which Gunnar had returned home was beginning to sour inside his mind. “Four months ago my lands were attacked by a group of Ivar's dogs. It was no small raid made by hungry farmers either, but a quarantined attack. No doubt Ivar was trying to get a foothold over the boarder to prepare for a larger assault in spring. Seeking more coastal land no doubt. Thankfully though we managed pushed them back in the end. But men died, Gunnar. Where were you to lead them then?”

Gunnar frowned and stared down at his empty horn. “Brother, we've talked about this. We agreed that as second born I would-”

“That you would be free to wander, to come and go as you pleased. To fight for any Jarl in any battle so long as it didn't put you across the field from any Bilrost men,” Herleif interjected, “So why now do you return and raise my army without my permission given? What claim do you have to try and command my men in the affairs of battle?”

Gunnar frowned across the table. “Herleif, I-”

“My men!” His fist slammed down on the table, cutting off Gunnar again and sending their horns rattling.

The silence that bloomed between lasted them for a long moment, until Gunnar finally looked up at Herleif with grim eyes and lips pressed tight. “This past winter I stayed in the hall of Erik Golden-Shield. We spoke of many things together while I ate at his table. He has plans, Herleif. Plans to raise a fleet of ships and go raiding into Ashfeld now that the weather is growing warm. He has extended us...extended you an invitation to join.”

Herleif pressed his hand flat on the table and stood up from the bench. “So you just thought to accept this invitation on my behalf? To gather my men without even consulting me first? Remind me brother, who exactly is the Jarl of Bilrost and it's warriors again?”

Now it was Gunnar's turn to stand, his knuckles pressed tight against the wooden table. “How else is a Jarl to act when the raiding season comes? Are you saying that you would refuse an invitation such as this? Erik is the most powerful Jarl west of Gronstad, not to mention the richest. His hall at Tua Peak overflows with wealth, Herleif. I have seen it! He takes such plunder on his raids for all the men who follow him, but he also taxes any ship that wishes to pass through his hold along the channel through Valkenheim,” then he leaned in a bit closer over the table, lowering his voice until it was little more then a whisper even though there was no one else around to hear, “There are some who say that he has become rich and powerful enough to make of himself a king, and he asked for you by name. You would have to be a fool to let this chance slip through your fingers.”

Stepping away from his bench, Herleif waved a hand in the air dismissively as he turned his back on Gunnar. “I would be a fool to just jump into bed with a Jarl who's holdings and army nearly triples my own. It is not the invitation that troubles me, but that I have not been able to discuss terms before sailing off. How do you expect that I should get a fair share of the spoils, or that my warriors won't be forced bear more then their fair share of the fighting once we cleave our way into enemy territory? Do I have time to consider this invitation, or have you already promised Erik every able bodied man in my hold to his service?”

“It is the honor of every Viking to die in battle before Odin, Thor and Tyr. What more is there to consider when given the chance to spill the blood of heathens that worship a false god?” Gunnar growled credulously.

Herleif laughed. “Oh, I'm sure Jarl Erik considers his options well when choosing where and how to send men to die for his benefit. I'm sure too that he showed you a many fine and shiny things while you were enjoying the hospitality of his hall, along with wonderful tales of how he took it so easily from weak towns on Ashfeld's shores. Think, Gunnar,” he seethed, tapping a finger to his temple, “How do you suppose he came to sit upon such wealth? By standing shoulder to shoulder with his men in the shield wall where the fighting is the thickest? Ha! Erik's only idea of honor is returning to his hall with a boat full of gold and less men to share it with. No doubt though you've already filled the heads of my men with the same promise of riches and glory on your way here. All the better that they don't think things through and just jump into the boat to pick up and ore. And what do you suppose I should do if I take my men raiding and return only to find that Ivar has again invaded my lands, only this time with the full strength of his own army? Do you think that my men will be consoled by what little gold and silver they return with when they find their families slain and their homes burned to ash?”

Gunnar flinched, his confident demeanor fading the more Herleif pushed his point. At mention of the Jarl Ivar though, Gunnar's stubbornness seemed to falter completely. “Your lands won't be invaded by Ivar,” Gunnar said grimly, his face breaking into a grimace, “He won't be here to do so. Erik has also invited him on the raid.”

Herleif felt like he had just been punched in the gut, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at his brother across the table. “You want me to raid alongside a man who has openly attacked my lands?” he asked quietly, “You expect my men to raise shields and go into battle with dogs who have spilled the blood of their kin?”

Gunnar sighed and raised a hand to try and put his brother at ease. “Erik knows of Ivar's slight against you. He has seen to it that Ivar will pay you in silver for the lives lost. There will be peace so long as we all agree to raid together.”

“A slight? Erik calls it a fucking slight!” Herleif roared. The memory of Sitvek Stone-Breaker laying in a field of snow and bloods flashed in his mind, and suddenly everything in his vision went red. Without warning he grabbed a nearby stool and hurled it across the room. It slammed against a wall and broke into pieces that clattered to the floor. “Aah, I... I need more ale...” he gasped, blinking quickly and curling his hands into fists as he tried to make them stop shaking. 

“Agreed,” muttered Gunnar, sitting back down and grabbing the pitcher and refilling his horn. Herleif did the same, holding out his horn for his brother to fill it to the brim. “Skol.” Their horns clattered together, ale splashing over their hands and then coating their beards as they drank vigorously. They carried on in silence together, drinking and refilling, drinking and refilling, until any tension and anger between them was belched away. Before they knew it the sunlight had shifted in through the windows, changing from a crisp morning white to a warm golden afternoon.

“All I'm saying is...you'll miss out...” Gunnar groaned, looking into the pitcher and finding it empty, “You shouldn't let this slip through your fingers, Herleif...”

Herleif rubbed his face in his hands, blinking as if he had just woken up from a long nap. “Miss out on what? Gold and glory?” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Brother, sometimes a man finds his gold and glory in things that aren't really gold or glory.”

Gunnar let the pitcher fall to the floor and let out a dry laugh. “What in Hel is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you need to get married and have children, you dumb fuck,” Herleif chided, “You're too old to be wandering around like a wild animal anymore. Time you took on some respn... repsons... you need to come home home and get your shit together.” 

Gunnar stared at him dumbly for a quiet moment, until the two brother's broke out into deep laughter. “Enough of your family man shit! I'll have no more talk of that...” Gunnar wheezed, “Listen... Now listen, and I'll talk sense to you. Erik and Ivar are going raiding either with or without you. What are you going to do when they come back more richer and more powerful then you could ever hope to become on your own?”

“Can't happen if they get themselves killed. Then I'll be having a few more gold pieces to my name than either of them,” Herleif winked. 

Gunnar waved a dismissive hand in his brother's direction, “Bah! You'll be sorry when Ivar has more power to his name and Erik has gold enough to make himself king. Listen! Don't let this pass you by! You have everything to gain by going, and you'll only end up losing if you stay.”

Herleif stared out into nothing as he leaned over the table, his head nodding gently as if things had somehow become so much more clear to him now. “Everything to gain, until the moment of our fate comes upon us.” What was his fate to be exactly? Should he go and see if glory and gold would be his as Gunnar suggested, or would it be better to sit and wait, just hoping that all his problems would simply slip away into Ashfeld and never trouble him again. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and held it before letting it slip out between his lips. “We will go and see Helge. She will help me decide if this is a fools errand or not,” he said quietly.

“Ah, no! Not fucking Helge!” Gunnar groaned, slapping a hand against his face and dragging it down into his beard. “Herleif, I'm telling you right now to go! Would I really steer you wrong? I'm your brother!”

Nodding his head again, Herleif slapped his hand on the table and stood up off his bench. “Yup. Come on, get your soggy ass up and moving. Sooner we see her the sooner we get this whole matter over with.” He stretched his arms back with a groan, feeling more and more the old man every time he drank this much.

Gunnar scowled. “You want to go now? But what about the feast?”

Herleif shrugged. “Never said that there was going to be any feast. You think just because you show your ugly face around here that I need to throw you a feast?”

“There's always a feast when I come back to father's hall!” Gunnar exclaimed, but stopped as Herleif turned and stared him down. “I mean... your hall.” 

Herleif gave his younger brother a reassuring nod and headed out of the hall. Gunnar watched him go, then let his head fall back on his shoulders and sighed. Making his way up onto his feet, he burped, and grabbed his horned helmet before slapping it on his head. The tall Raider stumbled, everything going dizzy as his head rang inside his helmet, but he managed to keep his footing and follow his brother out of the hall. “Getting married and having children... bah. Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath as he walked out after Herleif.

He wished that they'd had a second pitcher of ale before they left. No doubt that a bit more liquid courage would have been welcomed before going to meet the wild Shaman of Bilrost.


	3. Friends, Gods, Strangers

It took Herleif and Gunnar nearly an hour to make it out of the village. After first giving word to Audhilda of their quick departure, Herleif found himself stopped by many of the warriors that had traveled to Brosmegard. It seemed that Gunnar really had brought every able bodied man in the hold, and each of them was eager to greet their Jarl and show their readiness for battle. Herleif made sure to meet and welcome every warrior he could, Raiders, Warlords and even a few Berserkers among the freemen who were sworn to him. 

Brosmegard sat on a rocky shore that opened up to the western ocean where the Bilrost's coast helped form the mouth of a straight that led on to the frozen lands of northern Valkenheim. For hundreds of years since the reclamation of Valkenheim by the Viking clans from Ashfeld settlers, Herleif's family had ruled Bilrost as part of the first defense against invading knights that sometimes sail up from the south. After all that time of near constant warfare, the fortunes and power of their hold had waned compared to the that of others, but Herleif had always found pride in his family's legacy nonetheless.

A chilling breeze blew off the water where his ships were moored at the village docks. Even as spring began to thaw winter's grasp, snow still covered the ground and coated the pine trees that rose up into the air like gleaming spears. Taking horses from the stable, Herleif and Gunnar road out the village gate with a small retinue of Herleif's personal housecarls. Their destination took them up into the mountains that rose behind the village and away from the sea. 

“I just came down from the mountains, Herleif. I should be bathing in a hot spring right now, not going back into the wild,” Gunnar grumbled, cradling his axe in his arms as he rocked side to side upon his saddle. 

Herleif didn't respond. It wasn't a far journey, but long enough that he didn't want get into an useless argument with his brother over his decision to consult with the gods before committing to Erik's invitation. He knew Gunnar wouldn't understand. To him the call to battle was one answered without thought or careful consideration. Perhaps if Herleif wasn't burdened with the task of governing his hold then maybe he might feel the same. The chance to fight for glory and wealth certainly had its appeal, but Herleif had to make sure that his people would prosper from such a venture. With men like Erik and Ivar organizing this raid, he just couldn't be sure.

“It's barely even mid-day yet. Quit your whining and just ride,” Herleif grumbled back. The chill air was sobering as they rode on, and he was beginning to dread what might be asked of him once he had his meeting with the Shaman Helge. 

Shaman were a strange and dangerous lot. It was said that after the Vikings had fled north due to the Cataclysm that ravaged all of Heathmoor, strange and savage women appeared among the clans. Their ways were wild and bloody, even by Viking standards, and through their strange rituals they seemed to commune with a great number of terrible powers than just those of the gods. Herleif tried not to ponder what dark mysteries dwell inside a Shaman's wild mind, but simply tried to garner what wisdom he could through their cryptic words that were whispered to them from voices beyond this mortal realm. There were usually sacrifices to be made for such endeavors, but if all went well he would meet with Helge and come back with all of his fingers and teeth right where they were supposed to be.

“Its not that much farther. Helge's camp is just up ahead,” Herleif said, pointing in front of him through the trees.

“Why is Helge living all the way up here anyway? Did you finally wise up and send her to live with the other wild animals?” Gunnar asked with a laugh.

Herleif lifted his chin and scratched at his long beard. “No, she left on her own. Said that there were too many voices chattering about in the hall and that she couldn't hear the ones that mattered. Of course it was all just in her head. Audhilda was relieved to see her go, and so was I to tell the truth. She's a damn good warrior to have on your side, but I could do without crazy fits. She came to winter up here with Ragnar and Ragna.”

“Oh no, you didn't tell me that they were up here too!” Gunnar groaned, his head slumping on his shoulders, “One set of biting teeth to worry about is bad enough, but now you've got us walking right into a den of wolves. I have half a mind to go off wandering again than see any of them, especially that fiend Ragnar. He needs to be put on a leash, him and that infernal sister of his.”

“You're still whining. Afraid Ragnar might be feeling a bit frisky after having to deal with Helge and his sister all winter long?” Herleif grinned over his shoulder. Gunnar sighed and shivered, and it wasn't because of the cold. 

They rode through the trees and into a clearing beneath an outcrop of gray rock. Herleif gave a signal for his guards to remain behind while he and Gunnar rode on ahead. Not far up ahead there was a fire burning in front of a single tent constructed from hide and fur that was situated up against the rocky face that loomed overhead. A single man sat huddled over the fire, sharpening an axe and seemingly uninterested by anything else around him.

“Hail, Ragnar. I'm glad to see that you did not freeze to death during the winter. You Berserkers certainly are a fiery bunch,” Herleif said in greeting, getting down from his steed and approaching the man. 

Ragnar's head jerked up from the weapon he was working on, his eyes going wide. The wild warrior was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only a pair of patterned pants, an ornate face plate across his eyes, and a wolf skin over his well built shoulders. The toothy grin that spread across his lips seemed to have been taken right off the wolf as well. “Herleif!,” Ragnar exclaimed, his voice full of merriment and joy as he sprang up from his seat, “Jarl of Jarls! King of kings! A warrior chosen by the gods! What the fuck brings you up onto the mountain?” Dropping his axe, he rushed up to Herleif and made a jab at his side, feinted, and sent a flurry of blows up his middle. None of them actually connected with any real force, but Herleif couldn't help flinched anyway. Ragnar threw his arms around him and kissed both his cheeks excitedly. “Welcome! Welcome! Come and drink with me. Gods know that there's nothing else to do on top of this fucking mountain. Nothing but rutting, hunting, sparing, and then more of it all over again and again and again!”

“What about sleeping?” Herleif laughed and returned the Berserker's embrace. 

“Sleeping? Ha! Fuck sleeping. I can sleep when I'm dead. Now come, have a drink with me!” Ragnar grinned and fidgeted as he turned back to the fire and sat down again, grabbing for a nearby barrel of ale. 

Herleif remained on his feet, glancing over towards the tent. “Actually Ragnar, I'm here to speak with Helge. Where is she?”

“In the tent,” Ragnar grunted with a jerk of his head behind him. He poured them each a mug of ale and held them up, offering one to Herleif. “It's Ragna's turn to sate Helge's needs. Suites me just fine. Crazy bitch nearly rides me to the bone. Luckily there's two of us here to keep her occupied, otherwise I would surely be long dead.” 

Shaking his head, Herleif refused the offered mug. “I must go and speak with her, but I'm sure that Gunnar would be more then happy to sit and have a drink with you.” Turning, he gestured behind him where Gunnar had ridden up and was stepping down from his horse. 

Ragnar frowned at first, but as soon as he set eyes on the big Raider the wolfish grin returned. “Aha! Gunnar! Owoooo!” He threw back his head and howled loudly, setting down the mugs and charging at the larger warrior. 

Gunnar saw the Berserker coming and groaned. “No. No! You stay away from me you mad fuck!” he called out, trying to back away but only bumped into his horse instead. Shifting his feet, he took off around the animal's flank, going in circles as Ragnar gave chase. Herleif stood for a moment and watched, the site reminding him of his own two sons running around in play.

Laughing maniacally, Ragnar grasped at air as he tried to catch Gunnar, howling like a wolf the whole time. “Owooo! Come now Gunnar, don't be afraid! I just want to greet you properly! Owh, owh, owwwooo!” he howled. As Gunnar tried to make another pass round the horse, Ragnar simply leapt over the saddle, cutting the Raider off and springing on him. He latched on and tickled Gunnar's sides, ducking and dodging the swipes that Gunnar threw at him. Laughing and howling louder then ever, Ragnar jumped up kissed Gunnar full on the lips, giving him a good slap on his rump before springing away. “Aha! What a joy it is to see you again Gunnar. Its been such long winter without having a big strong man to keep me company. I thought I might go insane listening to women chattering about all the time!”

Taking a step back Gunnar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then spat at the ground. “Ugh, you crazy bastard! Never were one to keep your weapon sheathed. Why couldn't it have been your sister that always tries to greet me like a mad nymph?”

“Ha, now that's a laugh! You know that she has no interest in what either you or I have to offer,” Ragnar chuckled, grabbing his crotch and giving it a shake, “Unlike her though, I know for certain that a man was not meant to limit himself to the pleasures of just one sex. Not when there is so much to enjoy with both! Now are you going to cower in fear all day from a little hairy man such as myself, or are you going to sit down and have a fucking drink with me?”

“Yes Gunnar, quit insulting the man and drink. We're all friends here, are we not?” Herleif grinned, gesturing over to the fire for his brother to take a seat.

Gunnar sneered, but eyed the cups of ale and the barrel. “Ah, you kiss worse then a wench pulled straight from the swamps of the Myre. But maybe I'll think different after a good drink or two, eh?” he grinned. Slapping Ragnar on the back, they walked over together and sat down to enjoy their ale. 

Satisfied that the two men had brokered a peace between them, Herleif nodded and made his way towards the tent, but didn't make it far before Ragnar called out after him. “Ah, ah! Best be on your guard Herleif,” he said, pointing past Herleif to the tent. “Keep your weapons sheathed and no harm should come to you. And no, I'm not talking about your seax either! Ha ha!” Herleif gave the crazy Berserker a tight lipped grin, then went on his way. Behind him there was the sound of laughing and merriment as the two warriors raised their cups in a toast.

Slipping inside the tent, the first thing Herleif was met with was an intense wall of heat. Another fire, larger then the one outside, was roaring in a pit dug into the ground at the tent's center. Its flames licked and danced into the air, smoke rising through a hole that opened up to the sky above. From the wooden skeleton that supported the burlap casing, there hung over a dozen skulls and bones of small and large animals alike. All of them were decorated with runes and carvings that shone clear and bright in the firelight like glistening blood. Runes of magic, dark prayers and curses drawing power from living sacrifices.

There sitting by the pit, shirtless and sweating in the orange glow, was Ragna. Lean and powerful like a wildcat, she stared him down even before the tent flap had closed behind him. For a long while the only sound between them was the crackling of the fire, but finally Herleif nodded his head as he held his gaze to hers and looked at nothing else. “Ragna,” he said curtly, making no sudden moves.

Ragna's lips slowly slid apart, showing off a wolfish grin that matched her brother's, only this time there was no trace of the good nature or mirth behind it. Her's was a hungry and vicious smile, one that spoke of the pleasure found in drawing blood from prey. 

It was said that when Ragnar and Ragna had been born the gods created a passion and fury so great that it was too much for just one person to hold within them alone, and so in their wisdom they had separated it in two, much to the weariness of their poor mother. Twin Berserker warriors, a wild pair to be sure. Ferocious and violent on the field of battle as they were rambunctious and troublesome in the halls of men. Between the two of them Herleif had always felt that Ragnar was much more of a people person, with Ragna being more picky about who she decided to entertain herself with. She leaned forward, strong shoulders hunched, elbows resting on her knees. Her tan skin was marred with scars, and what looked to be small bite marks along her shoulders and neck. 

“Jarl Herleif,” she said slowly in a deep and smooth voice, like the purr of a cat happy to toy with a mouse before killing it, “Don't you know better to walk in unannounced on a woman before she is dressed? You're a married man, Jarl. What would Audhilda think?.”

“My apologies, I was unaware. I am actually here to see Helge,” Herleif replied, his voice low and calm. He glanced around for any trace of the Shaman, but found none. The firelight was bright and warm, but the shadows were just as dark and Helge could be lurking within any one of them.

Ragna laughed, “Ah, Jarl, you sure know how to break a girl's heart. Know how to make her jealous too, asking after my woman like that. I've gone after men for less, you know.”

“Your woman? I thought you and Ragnar liked to share?” 

“Helge does have her urges, and my brother has his fun, but I have no doubt that he knows his place in this little arrangement of ours,” Ragna grinned, blinking slowly.

“We all have our place in this world,” came on a disembodied voice from out of the shadows, a sound like a velvet hiss and chilling to the bone, “Our fates already set from the moment we take our first wretched breath to scream and cry. Life is a head long rush to the moment when we all must die. Such is the fate of both gods and men.” 

Out from a dark corner of the tent Helge came into the firelight, crawling on her hands and feet like a sleek wolf stalking the through the untamed forest. Each move she made seemed poised and calculated, her body tense and ready to strike. Intricate tattoos lined her legs, arms and curled along the shaved sides of her head. Her hair was dark and braided, her lips red like blood and her eyes smokey with dark blue paint. “Fate can be cruel, yes, but the Norns give us the freedom to do as we wish until the time of our end. Why then do we spend so much of our precious lives agonizing over death? At least we here know how to enjoy the simple pleasures that the world gives us.”

Herleif felt no more at ease to see the twins lover make her way out of the darkness. Facing down just one she-wolf alone was a tense enough experience. He watched silently, reminding himself that they were indeed all friends, and that their allegiance was owed to him as Jarl, but there was always something about these three that just seemed too wild to think of them as fully tame. Even a loyal dog could sometimes bite its master's hand on impulse.

Helge made her way over to Ragna, and the two met like friendly cats sliding up together by the fire. Helge looked back at him from over Ragna's shoulder, draping her arms around the woman as she smiled. “Come now, Herleif, I thought all old men loved to debate over the meaning of life and legacy? Don't silence yourself now. What ever is the matter? Has an Orochi run off with your tongue?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I'm the one who will be asking questions today. I am still your Jarl, and we have much to discuss.” Herleif answered grimly. He squared his shoulders and stood up as straight as he could, putting up a strong front against these formidable women.

Helge rolled her eyes, sticking out her tongue in feigned disgust. “Aw, no fun. No fun at all. You only ever want to talk about the yield of crops and who best to trade with. You're so boring, Herleif! Give me something exciting to talk about. Life! Death! The twilight of the gods! These are the things that interest me!”

Herleif gave the tenacious Shaman a small smile. “How about we discuss a potential raid against Ashfeld. Would that suit your tastes better?”

That prospect seemed to have done the trick. Helge immediately perked up, rising to her feet and moving around to stand next to Ragna who remained silent. “Herleif, you surprise me,” grinned the Shaman, “Finally you wish to discuss something worthwhile. The gods will be pleased to answer them, I'm sure.” Turning to her lover, Helge stroked a finger against Ragna's cheek, then swiftly turned her back on the Berserker. “Leave,” she said coldly, her attention already turned to a number of jars and containers that held all the necessary tools for her rituals.

The proud smile that had rested on Ragna's lips at Helge's touch slipped away instantly, and she lingered where she sat, staring at Helge's back. After a moment she stirred, grabbing up a brown fur pelt and tugging it around her naked torso in a huff. She didn't even look at Herleif as she moved around the fire and stormed passed him, just letting out a low growl as she tore through the tent flap. Herleif was fine to let her go, hearing a cheer from Ragnar and Gunnar outside that was met with a harsh greeting and a demand for a drink.

Herleif let out a slow breath once he was left alone with the Shaman, not sure if he should start talking or wait until she was done gathering up her materials. Mustering his courage, Herleif was about to speak when Helge suddenly turned and slinked back to the fire. With a flick of her wrist she threw a gray powder into the flames, making them spark with life and rise higher then ever. The heat stung Herleif's face, and he leaned back as the light blinded his eyes for a brief moment. When he could see again, the Shaman was beckoning him closer to the pit, smiling with a giddiness that unsettled him. He came forward took a seat at the pits edge, eyeing Helge she came to him brandishing a small knife in her hands. “Must we?” he asked, frowning down at the sharp blade. 

“The gods deal in more than just gold and silver, but in blood, flesh and bone as well. So too must we deal in these things when sailing off to war. Our blood must be spilled to earn their favor before we spill the blood of our enemies. It shows conviction. If you seek their counsel then it is the price you must pay,” Helge smiled, holding out her open hand expectantly. 

Herleif grumbled, but put his larger hand in hers, palm side up, and looked into the firelight as he felt the blade pressed against his skin. He winced as the knife sliced open his flesh, but said nothing. It felt like cold fire was licking at the open wound, but luckily Helge made quick work of holding his hand above a pigs skull fashioned into a bowl, catching the warm blood that poured from him. Only once she was satisfied did she let him go and tossed him a cloth to bandage himself with. He wrapped it around his palm, his gaze turned back to the fire. He couldn't help but notice though how Helge held the bloody knife to her lips and licked it clean with relish, sliding her tongue along both sides of the blade until the metal was clean. The Shaman hummed and gave a pleased smack of her lips. “You taste of power, Herleif. I always did enjoy that about you,” she smiled at him. Herleif wasn't quite sure what to think of that, and he fought to suppress a shiver that ran down his spine despite the heat around him.

Without another word Helge continued her work. Grabbing dried leaves out of a nearby bowl, she tossed them into the fire to burn and turn the smoke dark and billowy. The smell in the air became more pungent, and Herleif blinked as he felt himself slowly become a bit light headed. Helge took up dried herbs and mushrooms and crushed them in her hand before dropping them into the pig's skull with his blood.

Strange words began to slipped forth from her mouth, muttering some spell that only she knew over the skull. Picking up a wooden pestle, she stirred everything together into a thin paste before pouring it into a small cup. “If you have questions for the gods, Herleif, ask them now,” she said, then put the cup back to her lips and swallowed its contents. 

Herleif licked his dry lips, not sure what magic the potion and spell would bring on. “Will they give a straight answer?” he asked, but received no answer from the Shaman. Thinking carefully he gave voice to the troubled thoughts that had lingered in his mind since Gunnar had told him of the invitation to go raiding. “Should I accept Erik Golden-Shield's offer to raid into Ashfeld? If I agree, will I hold the favor of the gods, or will my people suffer under the boot of a man who cares for nothing but increasing his own wealth?” 

Then his gaze turned to the floor to a moment, his thoughts and concerns becoming much more personal. “And what of my family? If I go, will I ever see them again?” It almost felt like a betrayal to his people and the gods to ask such a selfish question. He knew that this thoughts should rest on Valhalla and his family's legacy, but they always seemed to turn back to wanting to be by their side rather then dying in battle.

Helge gave the cup a shake until every last drop flowed over her tongue. Her throat flexed as she swallowed and then she tossed the cup away. Silence lingered between them, until all at once the potion took it's hold on the Shaman with frightening quickness. 

A violent shiver visibly ran through her body. The corners of her lips twitched once, twice, and she fell. She dropped in a heap on her back, her body, limbs, eyelids and lips all twitching as she writhed on the floor. Her mouth flew open and a dry gasp burst forth followed by a sickening cry. Her body twisted, and her back arched up off of the floor until she was balanced in the air just upon the crown of her head and the bottoms of her heels. 

Herleif sat completely frozen, struck dumb by the bloody concoction she used to break through to the realm beyond Midgard. Her small body writhed on the floor, seeming to be in a death throes before she suddenly rolled over and up onto her hands and knees. Her eyes opened but they were turned up to show only the whites and thin red veins, her lips curling back to bare her teeth in a horrible smile. “Shields of gold. Days of ash. You wish to look upon path that your fate will lead, Herleif Bjornson?” she hissed, her voice sounding far away and unattached from her body. 

Herleif slowly rose to his feet at her question, a shiver of unease racing down his spine. In his time he had stood across the field against Knights, Samurai and Vikings alike, but nothing had struck him still so completely as that dead eyed stare and hallow voice of the Shaman possessed. “What is it you see, Shaman?” he demanded, putting steel into his voice, “What do the voices whisper in your ear?”

“I see, and I listen. The voices never tire of being heard. They scream and cry until their will is done. The path that lays before you will not be one easily tread.” Helge smiled, leaning up and spreading her arms wide, “I see, I listen and I will tell, Herleif Bjornson.”

“I see three Jarls who will sail to the mountain of rust and fire, and there they shall fight three great foes. I see the first standing proud upon their own pyre, dancing as madly as the rising flames around them. The second I hear with with the marching of a thousand footsteps, a mighty host beyond the horizon unseen. Of the third I neither see nor hear, for they are a wolf in the guise of a sheep and will not be known until their dagger is already at your back. All of this I know, but will tell no more. No fate can be fully known. The voices cry for so much blood.”

Herleif looked grimly into the crooked smile and white eyes of the Shaman, his stomach twisting into knots. Somehow the hot tent seemed to grow even hotter. His cloak was becoming uncomfortably heavy around his shoulders, and he felt sweat trickle down his neck from under his beard and hair. “So what does that mean?” he cried angrily, tossing his hands up into the air, “Should I refuse the invitation then? Can I trust Erik and Ivar, or will they only lead me to ruin? Speak, damn you! Enough of your veiled words and tell me plain what I wish to know!”

Helge jumped at him, catching him off guard and nearly knocking him off his feet. She grabbed onto his collar, her knuckles turning white from the strength of her grip. “Be not a coward, you old fool! Unsheathe your sword and seek out the path of fire until you see your salvation rising with the sun in the east. You are Viking! Trust only in your brothers, and in your shield. Your strength will come from no where else.” She hissed at him through clenched teeth, her breath hot on Herleif's face as she gazed up at him with those dead eyes. 

Then much to his relief and surprise she dipped her head against him, resting her brow upon his chest as her grip around his collar loosened. She seemed to relax, her body slumping as if exhausted. Herleif moved to grab her, but as he did her hands slid up along his cheeks, fingers curling in his beard as if she were caressing a lovers face. When next she spoke her voice was very soft, barely a whisper that he could hear over the flickering fire. “Fear not, Herleif Bjornson, for you are not without the love of the gods, or the love of your family. Glory will belong to you, but only if you can overcome those who would steal it from your grasp. They are like wolves snapping at you out of the darkness, hungry for all you have. You wish to be rid of them? Then you know what it is that you must do... ” 

Lifting her head Helge looked up at him again and smiled, and Herleif's blood turned to ice in his veins at what he saw. Blood was pouring from her corners of her eyes, from her nose and ears, bubbling forth from her lips like red rivers as she grinned. Even her upturned eyes were now completely red, as if filled to bursting with blood. Herleif wanted to scream, to cry out and toss her away in revulsion but couldn't. His throat had seized up, constricting tight as she gazed into him with that wicked face. The air around them was thick, stifling, and there was a rushing thump in his ears that grew louder and louder until he could feel it like the air pulsing like a living heartbeat. To his horror he realized then that the thumping in his head was Helge squeezing him between her hands. Her fingertips clawed into his face, cutting his skin as her hands began to crush his skull. He tried to pull away, to fight back, but he was frozen by her touch. Her strength was unrelenting, squeezing harder and harder until he was sure that he would break. 

Then at last she spoke. Her voice was deep, shaking with inhuman power, echoing inside his mind like the bellow of an ancient beast from the darkness of a cave. Each word came on slow and drawn out, as if it was a labor to say as well as hear.

“Take us to war.”

When next Herleif blinked everything in the tent was dark and cold. Before him the fire that had shone so brightly was no gone, the tent void of warmth and leaving nothing but ash and chard logs crumbling in the pit. Somehow he was sitting down again, with Helge cradled limp in his arms like a sleeping child. Slowly he turned his gaze down to look at her, his fear rising again at the memory of the horror he had seen in her face moments ago. To his relief she appeared as normal as ever. Peaceful even. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing steady. To look at her now he would have thought she was nothing more then a beautiful young woman, finding no trace of the great and terrible power that she dwelt inside her mind. 

She moved, and he flinched, almost tossing her off of his lap. Helge only let out a small sigh though, curling up and nuzzling her cheek against his chest. At least it seemed that she was having good dreams.

There was a sound behind him and Herleif twisted around. Blinding light stung his eyes and he grimaced, his hands clutching to Helge's body protectively as his numb mind tried to figure out what was happening. The sharp light faded away as a dark silhouette moved into the entrance of the tent. “Herleif, it is getting late. We should get going if we're going to make it back for the feast. And don't go acting like we aren't going to have one. You know it's tradition,” came Gunnar's voice. Herleif blinked a few times, his eyes finally adjusting to the daylight shining in his face and seeing his brother clearly. The giant Raider remained where he was, staring back at him and then glancing down to the unconscious Shaman in his arms. “Good thing I came to check on you. If it had been Ragna you'd be in for a world of hurt finding you two like this. She's been in a sour mood ever since she joined us at the fire,” he chuckled.

Herleif squinted his eyes, trying to make sense of what his brother was talking about. He remembered Ragna leaving the tent, but somehow that seemed like an age ago now. “What time is it?” he asked, his voice raspy and his throat dry.

Gunnar gave him a bit of a confused look, shrugging his big shoulders as he held the tent flap open over his head. “Well after mid-day. The sun won't last much longer. We should get going if we want to make it back to the village before dark.”

It had still been just after morning when they had arrived at the camp and Herleif had taken his meeting with Helge. Had he really been sitting there in the tent for hours, silent and unmoving? The thought made him feel ill, but perhaps that was just do to lack of food or drink for so long. He'd had the meeting he come for, though the answers still jumbled about in his mind. One thing he knew for certain now though was that he would very much like to get down off of this cold mountain and back to his hall.

“Yes... yes, I think you're right. Tell Ragnar and Ragna to pack their things, they're coming with us. Helge too.” Gunnar nodded and ducked out of the tent, leaving Herleif alone with the Shaman again. Helge looked as calm as ever, still asleep in his arms. For a moment he wondered if taking her along was a mistake, but he knew the Berserkers would not leave the mountain without her. More then that though, he couldn't help but remember her last words before everything went dark. 

'Take us to war.'

Herleif shuddered to think who she might be referring to, suspecting that she did not just mean the warriors of Bilrost. Was it the gods perhaps? A humbling thought, comforting even to think that they may stand with him. There had been nothing glorious about what her powers had shown him though, and that was what unsettled him. It had been a dark and evil experience, unlike anything he had witnessed with her before. Such was war though, he thought, glorious and terrible to behold. If he was to go and spill blood with Erik and Ivar, it would probably be best to bring Helge and her voices along.

He gathered his strength and rose up to his feet with a groan of effort, lifting Helge in his arms. She didn't weigh much, but he moved with caution as he left the tent, feeling like he was holding a wild animal that might wake up and sink its teeth into him at any moment. 

By the time that darkness had fallen Herleif was back safely at Brosmegard. He sat in his high seat at the head of the hall, while the revels and clatter of the feast went on around him. The hall was alive with merriment and drinking, music and games, with nearly everyone from the village present in addition to the warriors from all around the hold. The gathering even spilled out into the hall's courtyard, and no doubt continued out into the village proper where everyone could celebrate regardless of station. Ale and mead flowed freely while roasted meat, cooked fish and fresh bread was brought forth from the kitchens without end as bellies were filled.

Herleif sat back in his ornate high backed chair, drinking from horn held limply in his hand. The events on the mountain still lingered in his mind, and he pondered them with a heavy brow as he sat quiet and watched those around him. Gunnar sat with Ragnar at one of the many long tables, enjoying the feast that had been promised with his arrival. Together the two warriors joked and laughed, entertaining themselves and other Bilrost warriors that sat with them with stories of their past battles and great deeds. Herleif's sons and daughter sat with the other village children around an old Skald who had come along with the warriors. They listened to the Skald's tales of honor and glory, and songs of many heroes from all across Valkenheim, Herleif and Gunnar included among them. In another far corner of the hall, Ragna and Helge sat entwined together next to a fire. Ragna stared down any man drunk enough to dare approach them, while Helge whispered secret things into her ear that they both laughed at with bright smiles.

It was a good feast, but it held little interest to the Jarl hosting it. Herleif drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, thinking on who it was that had been speaking through Helge that hungered so greatly for blood. He had been the one to awaken those powers, give life to them as he sought answers to his own problems. The sting of his cut hand was a reminder of that. Of all the times he had sought guidance from Helge before, none had ever become so frightening. No doubt that even after the cut on his hand was long healed, the sight of those blood red eyes would still linger forever more in his mind. 

“So have you made your decision?”

Herleif gave a start and looked over at his wife Audhilda who sat to his right. She was clothed in her finest dress, dark green with white embroidery. A gold and silver necklace hung around her neck, with pendant earrings bearing the image of a galloping horse. Her hair was braided perfectly and curled into a silken wrap, with a simple gold circlet resting around her head. Upon her fingers were rings of gold and bright jewels, with silver bracelets dangling from her wrists. It was wealth fit for a queen, and most of it had been taken on raids from Herleif's younger days. He was proud of the gifts he was able to bring back to her, and his family back then. It had all gone to their benefit of the hold, securing his family's power among the Jarls of Valkenheim, but that was years ago now. Looking her over he suddenly wondered when exactly he had become so cautious when it came to organizing raids. He stared at her, brows raised after missing her question. “What's that?”

Audhilda slipped her hand into her Herleif's, covering the bandage around his palm beneath her fingers. “Have you made your decision about Jarl Erik's invitation?”

Herleif frowned and furrowed his brows as he turned back to the feast. “Hmm, I'm still unsure. It is not an easy decision to make.” he said gruffly.

“Do they know that?” she asked with a small grin, nodding towards the crowd of rambunctious warriors, “They did not come here just for our food and hospitality, Herleif, though I know they'll gladly take it. Some of them have already begun loading the ships while you and Gunnar were gone. They're all just itching to be away.”

Herleif nodded, rubbing his thumb against Audhilda's hand. “That they are. It's fine. We'll sail for the Hallowed Bastion in two days time. I'll speak with Erik personally and settle things then.”

Audhilda arched a brow at her husband, giving him that look that said his train of thought would make no sense to anyone but him. “That seems like an awful lot of work just to talk. It doesn't seem very Viking, worrying so much over going on a raid. I still remember a younger Warlord once asking me if I would prefer a gift of Warden's pendant or a dagger taken from a Peacekeeper's hand. I recall him being quite eager to please,” she said with a tight lipped smile.

“Will you ever let me forget? I wish you had asked for the pendant. Those Peacekeepers are more illusive then you would think,” Herleif chuckled back, but his smile soon fell from his face, “It is not a question of whether or not I have the stomach to go on a raid. The question is whether or not I can trust Erik and Ivan not to lead me on a doomed endeavor. The Knights of Ashfeld will not just lay down for Erik to come and sail away with all of their gold, or for Ivan to cut a bloody path through their land, and neither of them will be sated by anything less. Weighing this, the only thing I am certain of so far is that this will be no simple raid. It will be all out war.”

The corners of Audhilda's lips twitched, but she said no more, which Herleif was fine with. He was content just to sit and hold his wife's hand, thinking silently about the decision that lay before him. Audhilda sensed this, and sat quietly and thinking things over in her own mind. It was comfortable, a moment of many between them, until Herleif realized that the silence between them had spread further out into the the hall, even right up to the door. 

Herleif became aware that many of the warriors had their heads turned, and gazing out over them he caught sight of a lone figure standing in the entrance of the hall. The figure was tall and cloaked, unmoving before the crowd like a weathered rock rising against crashing waves. Herleif could only see that it was a woman who had come in unannounced, and that she wore a full faced helmet crowned with curved horns, and held a silver spear cradled in one arm with a small shield strapped to the other. By that helmet and weapon there was no mistaking who this woman was, but the question still remained as to why she was here.

Rising up from his seat, Herleif looked across the hall at the lone woman and felt cold, piercing eyes staring back at him from under that golden helmet Audhilda stood up next to him, and further down the table Gunnar did as well. Herleif glanced over towards his brother in hope of a possible answer to the woman's appearance, but he only looked back and shrugged with clear confusion and uncertainty on his face. 

Clearing his throat Herleif was about to speak, but Audhilda beat him to it. Her voice rang out loud and clear through the hall and she raised her drinking horn in greeting. “My husband and I are pleased to welcome such a warrior as a Valkyrie into our home. It has been far to long since we have played host to one of your most noble order. Please eat, drink, and make yourself warm. You are among friends here.”

The tall woman across the hall did not reply, but simply bowed her head before making her way through the hall. Herleif and Audhilda watched her for a moment longer before they both took their seats once again. Warriors parted before the Valkyrie's path as if she were a ship cutting through calm waters, until at last she came to a halt right before Herleif's seat. 

Looking down at her, Herleif wasn't exactly sure what to say. He had only ever met a Valkyrie while they were in the service of another Jarl, but had never employed one himself. Now that she was closer he could see that her armor was old but finely crafted, and that the eyes behind her helmet were as blue as ocean waves. They seemed to pierce right through him, judging his worth, seeking his thoughts. There was something unearthly about this woman, a feeling that spoke of a noble power greater then herself. 

“I welcome you to my hall, warrior. I am Jarl Herleif Bjornson.” Again the Valkyrie bowed her head but said nothing. Herleif paused for a moment, beginning to feel like he was speaking to a tree. “Who is it that I have the pleasure of speaking with then?”

“Skuld,” answered the Valkyrie in a curt and precise manner. Her voice was slightly muffled beneath the plate of her helm, but it was strong and meaningful none the less.

Herleif's brows lifted on his head as he leaned over the table. “Skuld? Meaning debt in the tradition of the Valkyries, is it? Who's debt have you come to collect? You are most welcome here as I have said, but I have sent no word or invitation to your order seeking salvation for any dead. All is well here in Bilrost, and there is no warrior among my clan with fear in their heart of being denied entrance to Odin's golden hall.”

Skuld gave no further answer. Slowly she turned her gaze over to Audhilda, and held it there unflinching. Herleif turned to his wife as well, brows raised. Audhilda appeared both uncomfortable and resolute as she looked down at the Valkyrie. “Perhaps we should grant a private audience to our new guest, my Jarl?” she asked, a small tinge of unease in her voice that told him it was hardly a suggestion.

Together Herleif and Audhilda retired to their private chambers with Skuld following behind. Herleif had his suspicions as to what this was all about, but kept his thoughts to himself until Audhilda had a chance to explain herself. He took a seat at a table near the hearth, while Audhilda remained standing and addressed the imposing Valkyrie on her own.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I understand that it is the way of your order to roam far and wide across Valkenheim. I trust the journey was not to arduous for you?” Audhilda asked, her voice proud and noble as she addressed the warrior. Skuld still remained quiet, leaving a strained silence in the room that prompted Audhilda to forgo any further pleasantries. “To the point then,” she said with a small nod of her head. She turned and walked to a nearby shelf, where an ornate box sat with the lid closed and locked. Audhilda drew up her ring of keys from her belt, finding the smallest among them and using it to open the box with slow reverence. Reaching inside, she produced an old seax, still housed in a dark leather sheath. It was rather simple in design and decoration compared to the box it rested in, a warrior's tool just as much as it was a weapon. The grip of the long dagger was slightly worn, evidence of prolonged use by whoever had once wielded it.

Audhilda held the seax in both hands, looking down at it with a sort of sadness as she lifted it up for Skuld to see. “This seax belonged to my father, Ander Ottarson. He was a strong warrior, sworn to Herleif's father Jarl Bjorn Steel-Hide in his day. He was well loved by those who knew him. My father fought in many battles raiding with Jarl Bjorn, and always he returned home with wealth for our family. It was because of this that our station in Bilrost was elevated and was considered a suitable to Herleif when we were young. He was a good man, and a good father. A true Viking of Valkenheim.” 

The strangled emotion in Audhilda's voice made Herleif press his lips together tight. He sighed deeply, sitting in his chair without interrupting. Ander's seax had sat in their chambers for some time now, and he knew its importance to Audhilda as a memento of her family long passed on. Skuld's striking blue eyes stared at the dagger as Audhilda continued.

“Years ago my father was thrown from his horse while out on a hunt in the forest and struck his head upon a tree. He healed from the fall, but the wound to his head left a lasting mark upon his life. It was as if Loki had played some sort of cruel trick, taking my father's wit and skill to do anything and leaving a mighty warrior helpless. He had lost himself, easily forgetting where he was and the faces of those who loved him. There were many who wanted to help him, including Jarl Bjorn, but there was nothing they could do to bring back the man my father once was. It was clear that the days of my father raiding had come to an end.”

“My mother watched over him the best she could, but caring for him was like caring for a young child. Some said that it would just be better to send him on his way, but she wouldn't hear of it. I fear now that perhaps it would have been better if she had listened. He had a habit of wandering off. One night he slipped from his house unseen, and must have wandered off into the wilderness or along the shore. Loki had played his last trick, for no matter how hard we searched we never found any trace of what had happened to him. He had gone off without his sword, his seax, anything that would show him as a warrior if he was to meet his end. To this day I know nothing of his fate, but in my heart I know his soul does not reside in the golden hall where he deserves to be.” 

Audhilda thrust the seax out to Skuld, bidding her to take it. There was a pleading look in her eye, a daughter's love for a father made clear. “You are a Valkyrie. It is you who chose who is worthy among the dead. My father's misfortune kept him from an honorable death in battle with a sword in hand, a fate that was his by right. But now you might fight on his behalf and earn him back his proper place in Valhalla. My husband prepares to raid into Ashfeld with the Jarls Erik Golden-Shield and Ivar the Red, and together they will claim great glory and honor in the eyes of the gods. I bid you to go with him. Take my father's weapon, and give him the honorable death that was denied him while he was still whole.”

Herleif was struck by his wife's plea, a genuine cry from her heart to see her father honored in the way that he deserved. The story of Ander Ottarson was well known in their village, and had hung over Audhilda like a dark cloud since his disappearance. He had always tried to be respectful of the subject, letting the name of Ander rest until it became a ghost that lingered in the shadows of their minds. Now though he realized that he had been wrong to think it was better to forget the tragedy rather then to seek solace for a person held so dear. In that moment his heart both broke and burned with pride for his beloved wife, knowing her to be a true woman of honor.

Skuld looked at the old seax for a moment longer, as if weighing its worth, or rather the worth of the man of whom it had once belonged to. Stepping up to Audhilda, standing quite a bit taller then the noblewoman, Skuld gently took the dagger from her hands. She continued to hold it out in front of her, laying claim to the offering with a respectful bow of her head. “I accept,” she replied calmly, “For Ander.”

Audhilda's hands dropped to her sides, and her shoulders relaxed as if relieved of a great burden. “You have my thanks, brave Valkyrie. Go with my love, and the love of all the gods. My father's fate rests in your hands,” she said, the hint of tears glistening in her eyes.

Skuld slipped the seax into her belt and bowed to Audhilda again, then turned to Herleif and repeated the gesture before leaving the room without another word. Audhilda dipped her chin and closed her eyes, clasping her hands in front of her as she took a moment to compose herself. “I owe you an apology, husband,” she said in a serious tone as she turned and looked at Herleif, “I fear that in the pursuit of my own en devours I have forced your hand to go sailing with men you do not yet fully trust. Only, I have longed sought such a moment to set right my father's ill fate. When you told me of Erik's invitation I could not stop myself from seeking out a Valkyrie's help. Can you forgive me, my Jarl?”

Herleif's gaze softened as he looked at his wife. He hated it when she called him by his title. It felt like she was drawing a line in the sand on principle rather than falling back on the love they had for one another. “You have forced nothing,” he said with a wave of his hand, “Far be it from me to stand in the way of what is rightfully owed. Your actions do you credit as a daughter and a wife. If there is anyone who should apologize, it is me for not doing the same sooner.”

Audhilda blinked a few times, rubbing a finger against the corner of one eye before holding out her hand. Herleif stood and went to her, first taking her hand into his own and then bringing her into his embrace. They stood silently for a moment, her head resting upon his chest as he held her in his arms. “You make me proud, Herleif. I would not let you go so willingly if I did not think it was right. You have done our people a great service by looking after them, but I knew that your fate would always lead you to distant lands in the end. A Warlord's sword will always find it's way back into his hand.”

Herleif sighed into her hair, and breathed in the sweet scent of her perfumes. She smelled of home and comfort, her body warm and easy to touch. He felt both the bitter sting and joyful swell of knowing that she was right, that as much as he wanted to remain here with her in his arms that it was not meant to be. The roaring sea and field of battle called for him, for in his heart he was Viking. He would always be seeking that great honor of a magnificent death, one that would always take him away from his family in the end.

“I will be back,” he said, as he always did, but they both knew that one day he might not return regardless of what he promised her. Still it was a comfort that neither of them could do without.

“You had better,” she laughed, “You still owe me a Peacekeeper's dagger after all. At your age this might be your last chance.” They chuckled together, and then Audhilda slipped from his arms. “Come, we should return to our guests.”

“Go on ahead, I will be there in a moment,” he replied, letting his hand linger in hers before she departed the room. He was left alone with only the crackle of the lit hearth and the thoughts in his head to keep him company. 

He turned and walked closer to the fire, holding out his hands and letting the warmth wash over him as he stared into the flames. Soon he would be away from this place and his family, sailing head long into a fight that he may not return from. Dark voices and the will of the gods seemed to be filling his sails, compelling him to go forward without hesitation. Like the fire now before him, he knew in his heart that he would be sailing into the flames of war.


	4. The World Serpent

Cold sea water sprayed over the bow of Herleif's longship the Salt Boar, splashing outward into the air like great eagle's wings. A ship's figurehead curved upward on the prow, decorated with a mighty boar's skull that bore long curved tusks against the world, ready to strike fear into the hearts of all who looked upon its approach. Fixed within the skull was a metal cage where a flame could be lit, giving the prow beast an all together more ferocious look of breathing fire and smoke as the longship cut through the water. For now though, that kind of fear was not necessary while the ship sailed on, as these choppy waters were still within the territory of Valkenheim.

Herleif looked at the open ocean as it stretched out before him, dressed in his horned helmet and armor, his hall and family now far behind him. Yesterday he had set sail with his raiding ships from the Brosmegaurd's port, and just this morning had sailed out of the strait that cut through northern Valkenheim and into the wider ocean above Ashfeld. His destination was the southern half of the island called Hel, which sat between Valkenheim and Ashfeld, and was where Erik had bid them to meet to stage this great raid.

There were twenty ships to his fleet. Long and sleek vessels that cut easily through the water, each able to carry over a hundred men plus supplies. It was a sizable army for any raid that he might carry out on his own, but once it was added to the numbers of men and ships that both Erik and Ivar would provide it would become a fleet worthy of sagas. As leader of this raid Erik boasted the greatest numbers of boats, men and war gear, and so no doubt would take much of that glory for himself. 

It was a fact that Herleif just couldn't ignore, one that had been weighing on him for days. As much as he wanted to be part of this raid there was something about this invitation that just wasn't as simple as it seemed. Turning his back on the approaching horizon, he walked down the deck past the rowing benches in search of his brother.

“Gunnar,” he called, finding his brother at the stern of the longship, handling the rudder and keeping them on a steady course. They had caught a good wind that filled their sail and sent the fleet speeding on its way without the need of ores. He stepped up to the ship's railing and leaned against it. “Tell me again about what Jarl Erik shared with you of his plans. Was there anything you left out in telling me when you arrived at home?”

Gunnar frowned, stroking the braid of his beard with one hand, keeping the other on the tiller arm of the rudder. “I think not. I told you exactly as he told me. 'Take this invitation from me to your elder brother, and my respect,' is what he said to me. He wants you and Ivar to meet him at the Hallowed Bastion so that we can come to terms before raiding down the river through northern Ashfeld. Winter is ending and the spring winds will make for speedy sailing. We'll be in and out so quick those tin heads won't know what hit them.”

“Will we now? With our three forces combined and Erik's golden shield glaring bright in the sun we'll be the very meaning of stealth, is that it?” Herleif grinned. Gunnar didn't seem to have an answer for that, so he went ahead and made his point. “Erik has had plenty success raiding on his own. I'm not saying it isn't unusual for one Jarl to seek help from another, but why split the rewards when he can just take it all on his own? He has the ships and the men, so why does he need more? Did he say anything about what realms he wants to hit? What strong positions the Knight legions might hold?”

Gunnar squirmed under his brother's gaze. “There are rumors of in fighting within the legion ranks. Confusion and distrust. Erik thinks they are weak, and so he means to hit them hard. He has plans, Herleif, great plans. But I do not know the details. I was not so far in his council while I stayed in his hall,” he said, though he looked a bit sheepish to not have a better answer.

Herleif nodded, though he thought that his brother was probably to busy drinking and wenching the winter away to even be aware that Erik had a council at all. He couldn't fault Gunnar though, for he knew that he meant well by bringing this message from such a powerful Jarl. His was the heart of a proud Viking eager to raid, and there was no way he could have refused Erik even if he had shared Herleif's reservations. “Well, I suppose we'll just have to wait and hear what he says once we meet him,” he said, softly thumping a fist on the Salt Boar's railing.

Sensing a lull in Herleif's questions, Gunnar took the opportunity to put them to an end completely and changing the subject. He looked up the length of the ship and nodded with his chin at the tall Valkyrie standing with spear in hand against the waves. “She here for Ander then? I saw that she has his old seax upon her belt.” 

Herleif glanced solemnly over at Skuld as well, finding her presence on his ship both a strange comfort and unsettling distraction. Most of the other warriors kept their distance and whispered things about her when they thought she couldn't hear. She was a source of wonder and mystery with her mission among them, but it was thought best to leave her alone for fear of angering the gods. For Skuld's part, she seemed perfectly content with this arrangement and ignored them all right back. As if her ancient order wasn't mysterious enough, Herleif was sure that he hadn't heard her speak since she had accepted Ander's seax, and he had yet to see her ever without her golden helmet on her head. “Aye. She is fighting for his soul so that he may enter Valhalla,” he replied.

Gunnar stroked his beard again. “You know that is no guarantee, right? She needs to slay an opponent that is worthy of Ander's soul, one that she must choose herself. Among these Ashfeld dogs she may find none who are. And there is always the chance that she herself might fall in battle before she gets the chance. That seax might stay in its sheath through the whole campaign and never taste a drop of blood.”

“I am aware,” Herleif said grimly, “but Audhilda arranged for all of this herself. This is important to her, as it is to me.”

Gunnar fidgeted a bit against the tiller. “Just making sure you're aware. They're an uncanny lot, the Valkyries, wandering the wilderness seeking the souls of dead men. Strange thing for a woman to spend her time doing if you ask me.”

Herleif let out a snort of laughter. “As opposed to the Raiders who wander the land seeking to make dead men? All while refusing to put on a damn shirt? Yes, compared to the rest of us they are uncanny, with their unyielding devotion and respect for the gods. Very uncanny indeed. I wonder what it is exactly that makes the gods love them so much?” He laughed again, and after a moment Gunnar joined in, but were shortly interrupted by a loud call coming from further up the ship.

“Man on the rocks! Off the starboard side! Man on the rocks!” 

The call caught everyone's attention. Across all the ships that formed up the head of the fleet, warriors scrambled to look. Some grabbed ropes to cast a line for whoever might need pulling in, while others simply stared out across the waves to catch site of the unlucky soul. These waters were frightfully cold, and no one could survive long after going in for any length of time.

“Who is it? Did someone fall overboard?” Herleif called out as he hurried his way up the ship to help.

The warrior who sounded the call just shrugged his shoulders as Herleif approached, then looked off in the direction of a small island of dark wet rock that jutted up out of the sea among crashing waves. “No my Jarl. Its just... just a man on the rocks,” he said pointing.

Herleif came to the railing and looked out across the water. At his sides came Ragnar, Ragna and Helge, all casting their gazes out towards the island as well. Squinting his eyes, Herleif could make out a lone figure standing against the open sky, and heard the faint noise of yelling on the wind as they sailed closer. 

At first he thought the figure was calling for help, but as the sound became more clear he realized that the person was simply yelling. Screaming even, at the top of his lungs as if caught in the midst of a great battle. As the Salt Boar sailed closer, the figure could be seen beating his chest and stomping his bare feet at all the warriors staring at him. His head was shaved except for a long braid running down his back, and his face and chest were painted white, but splattered with red splotches like blood. In his hand he held a sturdy hammer, which he beat against his chest as powerfully as he did his fists. 

“Is that...” Ragnar began, surprise heavy in his voice.

“A Jormungandr.” Ragna finished as she leaned over her brother's shoulder, sounding unimpressed. 

Ragnar squinted and flicked his hand up over his eyes. “No... can't be. One of those snake cultists from up in Storr Stronghold, think they defeated Thor and stole his hammer?” he asked.

Herleif couldn't help but just stand there and stare, jaw slack as the the strange warrior continued to scream uninterrupted. “Looks like it. What in Hel is he doing all the way down here?” He looked around for any sign of a boat or wrecked ship, but saw none. There was always the possibility that the man had swam to the island after his ship sank beneath the waves, but that still didn't explain why he was all alone. There were no other bodies, and no debris floating in the water.

Ragnar scratched his head, almost unsure if what he was looking at was real or just a strange Loki trick plaguing their minds. “Just listen to him go. He's cracked. Probably doesn't even know where he is.”

Helge leaned against the ship railing and laughed. “Crazy fool. He thinks that the World Serpent will be his salvation. He listens to the wrong voices,” she grinned. Herleif frowned and gave her a curious glance, not totally convinced she had had any right to call someone else crazy.

“So, are we gonna help him?” Ragna asked, though she didn't sound particularly enthusiastic about the idea. A few heads turned towards Herleif, waiting to see what decision he would make, ropes ready to throw at the command. Herleif paused and thought for a moment as the ship sailed on by the stranger. For a brief moment their eyes connected, and Herleif saw clear the burning insanity raging inside inside the Jormungandr's soul.

“No,” he said at last, “No I think not. I don't need whatever... that is on any of my ships.”

Ragnar, Ragna and Helge all nodded together. “Its probably for the best,” Ragna said, patting Herleif on the shoulder before turning and forgetting all about the screaming man on the rocks. Those holding ropes dropped them down, and everyone went back to whatever they were doing before the strange disturbance. 

Herleif remained for a little while longer, watching as the Jormungandr continued to beat his chest and scream with as much might as his hoarse voice could muster. It was awfully shrill and high pitched, that scream, very hard on the ears. As the sound slowly faded away and the Jormungandr shrank on the horizon, there was the faint distant call of “Ragnarok!”, and Herleif was content with the decision that he had made.


	5. Brothers in Blood

The Hallowed Bastion was a great fortress near the coast of the island called Hel. It was an ancient place that had seen many battles in the past, and was a strategic position in the sea between Valkenheim and Ashfeld for both organizing raids and defending Viking territory. For many Vikings, the towering walls and intricately carved idols of the Hallowed Bastion were the last things they saw before sailing off to raid, or the first glimpse of home to greet them upon their return.

It was also said that the fortress was the final resting place of a once great Viking warrior, who had since passed into legend among the sagas by defending the fort against both attacking Knights and Samurai. As the tale went, this hero slew many and remained standing as his enemies turned and ran before his might. What the warriors name was had been lost to history, but the tomb that was meant to hold his body and mythic sword remained housed in a temple within the fort's walls. It was guarded both day and night by a lone guardian, who would watch over the tomb until his death in return for entrance into Valhalla for his service. The legend shrouded the Hallowed Bastion in mystery and legend, making it a place of reverence among Valkenheim's people.

The truth was much less glorious. It was a wonder to guess how Samurai may have ever made it so far west to attack the fortress, but it could certainly be seen how years of attacks from encroaching Knight forces had taken its toll. The fort was certainly in need of a touch up.

While some parts of the outer walls seemed sturdy and defensible, there were also towers with chunks of stone missing, gaping holes made from Ashfeld catapults in their structure. The fortress felt old, and seemed to be in a constant state of repair and disrepair as a result. There was trench beneath the front gate and along the outer wall that allowed troops to move under an enemy's advance, with fortifications lining the main path to the gate to create a kill zone where arrows could be fired down upon enemy forces. A small garrison of warriors remained within the fort's walls and acted as caretakers, though their means were clearly limited. Any additional defenders came from the continuous stream of different Viking clans who sailed through between raids into Ashfeld, the fort acting as a hub to re-supply and organize their fleets. 

Such was the case now, as Herleif's ships pulled into the harbor near the fort under the shroud of dusk. The harbor was choked full of longships, some bearing the golden wings of Erik's Sea Eagle clan upon their sails, and other's the blindfolded skulls of Ivar's Headhunters. The clatter and commotion of warriors sitting around with nothing to do but drink and fight each other echoed through the air from the docks and all the way up the hill within the fortress' walls. Herleif was eager to be among them, and finally have a meeting face to face with Erik Golden-Shield.

Once the Salt Boar was secure at the docks, Herleif set his warriors to unloading any necessary supplies for their stay and then traveled up the hill towards the front gate. Flanked on one side by Gunnar and Ragnar, and with Ragna and Helge on the other, Herleif was able to walk with his head held high being surrounded by such heroic company. Behind them walked the stoic and tall Skuld, giving off an even more formidable presence to their little band. 

Warriors wearing clan colors of Erik's white and Ivar's red roamed along the path from the docks to the fort's gate, standing on guard or organizing provisions and supplies for the raid. Many gave their passing group a curious look, or moved out of the way to give them room on the path. Fewer offered them any kind of greeting as they walked by, but that suited Herleif just fine. He knew he would not feel settled until he discovered what this gathering of warriors and ships was really all about.

Passing through the large wooden doors main gate and into the courtyard, Herleif found even more of Erik and Ivar's warriors milling all about within. Drinking, laughing, feasting and fighting, they all mingled together like family as they reveled comfortably in the protection the Bastion offered them before sailing into enemy waters. This was the last bit of home any of them would enjoy for weeks, months even or possibly years to come. Herleif hoped that things wouldn't come to that, but he was prepared to devote all of his strength to this raid so long as it proved fruitful for everyone involved. 

“Quite the turn out, looks like,” Gunnar grinned as he looked around, looking the warriors gathered on the ramparts that stretched along to their left and those camped in front of the great temple on their right, “It does a Viking proud to see so many gathered and ready to take on the tins.”

Ragnar laughed and jumped up to hook his arm around Gunnar's neck, dragging him down and slapping the Raider's belly with an open palm. “Ha! They're all here to make sure you don't end up stabbed through your hairy gut with Ashfeld swords and looking like a needle cushion!” he laughed, jumping away again before Gunnar could retaliate.

Herleif was rather impressed as well. It was certainly a mighty force that had been gathered here, and with his own warriors included he was sure that whatever Erik had in mind for this raid would surely have the man power to see it done. Even if they somehow failed, with a fighting force as large as this would certainly become a tale for the ages.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to the twin Berserkers and Helge. “You three go and find the quartermaster in charge. Most likely its going to be one of Erik's men. Make sure they don't shaft us when giving us a place to camp. Just because we are the last to arrive does not mean we'll be sleeping in the boats.”

Ragna and Helge smiled devilishly together, while Ragnar nodded enthusiastically. “By your command, Jarl,” Ragna said, “Only the finest views the Bastion has to offer for us. Not to close to the latrines either.”

“That's what I like to hear,” Herleif grinned. He turned to Gunnar and Skuld next. “You two stay with me. Time we found the powers behind this little gathering and have a chat.” He wanted Gunnar by his side when meeting with Erik, and he figured that if Skuld was going to continue keeping her mouth shut and look intimidating then she might as well do it standing over his shoulder. It never hurt to have a little extra help standing at your back when meeting with someone who not only held the odds against you, but could buy them as well. 

Parting with the others, Herleif, Gunnar and Skuld made their way further into the fort towards the inner gate. They didn't make it very far before a call came out from the ramparts above. “Jarl Herleif, you Warlord bastard! Finally decided to come add your shield to the others? Took you long enough to get here!”

Herleif stopped and looked up, spotting a grinning Berserker in a fine golden helmet leaning over the railing of a rotund tower. He craned his neck back and shouted, “That you, Magnus Erikson? And whats more, you're growing a beard! Finally figure out how to be a man?”

Magnus laughed again, then pointed down at Herleif. “Stay right there! I'm coming to you!” He ducked back from the railing and out of sight, but a moment later Herleif and the others spotted him sliding down a long ladder to the ground. He quickly jogged his way over to them, arms out wide and wearing a grin beneath the light layer of blonde hair growing on his face. “Welcome, Herleif! Welcome! It is good that you are here.”

“Magnus,” Herleif said, giving the Berserker a more pleasant greeting as they embraced, “Last time I saw you, you were still a small boy clutching at your mother's skirt. Look how you've grown! Is this to be your first raid then?” Stepping back, he looked the young man up and down, seeing how he had changed over the years.

“It is! I have promised my father that I will take many lives once we get to Ashfeld to make both him and the gods proud. I have heard the Allfather's mighty voice call out to me, and my spirit burns with a fury for battle and blood!” Magnus seemed to beam with pride for the attention. His shirt and trousers were cut from fine white cloth, with decorative patterns of golden thread sewn in. There was a wolf's skin around his waist held up by a golden belt, and even his helmet gleamed like a Jarl's treasure hoard. Just at a glance it was obvious that everything he wore was expensive and made of the finest craftsmanship, though none of it bore any scars or blemishes from battle. It was armor fit for a prince, and surely paid for with his own weight in gold. 

All Herleif could see was a young man wanting to play at being a hero, but perhaps he was just being cynical. No doubt he had looked just as foolhardy when he had been young and eager to fight. For so many young warriors it always seems like the only way to their mind of proving their worth. He put a hand on Magnus' shoulder and smiled. “That is good. I will be eager to see you in action, and honored to fight by your side. Of course you remember my younger brother Gunnar from his stay at your father's hall, and this giant stone of a woman is called Skuld.” Magnus eagerly clapped hands with Gunnar in greeting, and offered to do the same with Skuld. She simply stared at him until he pulled his hand away, and Herleif gave a small chuckle. “I'm looking for your father. Do you know where he is?”

Magnus nodded quickly, but whether it was just youthful energy or the frenzy of an up and coming Berserker warrior was impossible to tell. “He and Ivar sit under the stone sword in the back of the fortress. Come, I will take you to him,” he grinned, turning to lead the small party further into the great fort.

Herleif and the others followed Magnus as he took them on through the fortress' second gate and back to the rear courtyard. Here there were no large buildings, only a constructed platform atop a low mound to the right, and to the left a rising hill on which arose sacred standing stones. It was a place where sacrifices might be carried out to the gods in return for good fortune on raids. Magnus led them on further towards the back of the yard, past two stone tombs and to a set of steps that led to a large and open area. There, rising up from a decorated altar towered a great stone sword that stretched up into the sky. Many were gathered here, all reveling and feasting together. Where before it had been the lower warriors camped from both armies, here was where captains and mighty heroes readied themselves for the journey to come.

All around Warlords and Raiders were toasting each other's tales of glory and battle with horns of mead and ale. Berserkers wrestled together in circles of both wild men and women, while onlookers whooped and hollered for even more spectacle. There were proud looking Highlanders with their fine mustaches and patterned kilts, carrying their great claymores over their shoulders like damsels being carried off to their far away lands. Up on the hill, a group of Shaman were pulling an ox along by a rope towards the standing stones, their hands and mouths already bloody from the sacrifices that had made that day. There were even a few Valkyries standing out among the crowd, silently on guard over this old and sacred place. 

The air was filled with music and laughter, and all appeared happy and at ease as they ate and drank with the stars shining above their heads. There were some faces that Herleif recognized as old warriors he had fought with before, and many more that he did not. Passing through the crowd he caught sight of a group of dark haired dancing girls dressed in fine silks. They swayed to the music with silver rings jingling upon their wrists and ankles, and wore golden collars around their necks. From the look of them they all appeared to be from the Myre, most likely taken on a raid and sold across Valkenheim until they ended up here. One of them who had bright floral tattoos stretching over her shoulders met his gaze, and gave him a playful smile with a wave to come closer. He returned the smile, and gave her a wink, but pressed on as Magnus led the way.

Bounding up the stone steps, Magnus spoke out in a loud voice. “Father! Look who has finally arrived! May I present Jarl Herleif Bjornson of the Tundra Tusk clan, his brother Gunnar the Bear, and the Valkyrie Skuld.” 

Herleif glanced up at the stone sword above him as he stepped forward, then looked down at the men gathered beneath the statue. There were three ornate chairs arranged arranged together beneath the sword, with roaring braziers behind.

On the right slouched down in his chair sat Ivar the Red, black bearded and grim faced, with three horns lining the brow of his open faced helm. A Warlord of violent renown, he was the Jarl of the ferocious Headhunter clan from Thurshamrar, the hold to the south of Herleif's own. His armor of fur and thick leather was splattered red as if covered in blood, and from his belt hung three human skulls marked with runes of power, as was his clan's custom. Upon his lap sat a slave girl, who's hip he stroked idly as he watched Herleif and his company approach with open suspicion. Even by Viking standards the tales of Ivar's desire for bloody combat was considered barbaric.

One figure stood rather then occupy the empty seat to the left of the statue. He was a tall and broad shouldered old man, a white haired Highlander from distant shores. What his clan name was Herleif had never learned, as it had been done away with after the Highlander had come into his master's service through ancient oaths. Simply called Old Wolf by those who had cause to speak to him, he was a powerful and imposing figure adorned with a golden eagle upon his cap, and with his shining claymore ever at the ready to protect the Golden Jarl. Which brought Herleif's attention to the last man before him.

There could be no mistaking who the blonde bearded Warlord who occupied the center seat before the blazing fires. Everything about him, from the fine quality of his armor to the ease with which he sat before such mighty warriors, spoke of wealth and power. Gold plate lined the mask of his helmet, and he wore a shirt of golden chainmail rings to cover his arms. His thick leather cuirass was clean and well kept, intricately engraved with the symbol of and eagle and inlaid with golden studs that glimmered in the firelight. An ornament of shining golden wings sat upon his brow, a majestic and regal look as well as imposing, and it indeed did look much like a crown placed his head. Leaning against his seat was the tell-tale golden shield, with four circles of protective runes and four finely crafted skulls fashioned upon it's surface. He was the Jarl of Sea Eagle clan, but over the years his growing wealth and power had earned him a more apt title of the Golden Jarl.

Erik Golden-Shield stood up from his seat and smiled brightly, holding his arms out wide as he approached. “Herleif, my old friend! Welcome!” he exclaimed. His jovial greeting was welcoming and kind, his voice meant to put those around him at ease despite all the wealth that he openly put on display. No doubt it was all as carefully crafted as the many golden ornaments he wore. Clapping his hands down on Herleif's shoulders, he gave his fellow Warlord a friendly shake. “What took you so long? I was beginning to fear that Gunnar had failed to deliver my message, or worse, that you had refused,” he chuckled.

Herleif smiled and shook his head. “No, no. Gunnar delivered your invitation to me just fine. I was just so surprised by it that it took me a while to come back to my senses,” he said, clapping a hand on Erik's arm.

Erik laughed again, pointing a finger in Herleif's face. “It is good that you did! Now that you're here we can finally talk. We have much to discuss, and I am eager to leave this place and get underway. But first, we drink!” He slapped Herleif's shoulder once more and then held up a hand to a nearby servant. “Bring horns of mead for everyone here! We must make a toast now that we are all gathered. Gunnar, so good to see you again my boy. I knew I could trust you to carry my message. You must have a silver tongue to get your brother away from his hall and that lovely wife of his. Welcome!”

Gunnar grinned as he clapped hands with the Golden Jarl. “All ideas and invitations sound good over a few cups of ale. It is why so many flock to your hall and seek your leadership, and your hospitality.”

“It is as I have always said, what the Knights and the Samurai give to me I am happy to give to all of you!” Erik grinned. Then he turned towards Skuld and gave her a once over. “A Valkyrie, eh? A most valiant hero. And who might you be here for then?”

Herleif gave Skuld a sideways glance and decided to answer for her, figuring it would just save time for everyone. “This is Skuld. She fights for my wife's father, Ander Ottarson, lost to the wilderness years ago,” he said solemnly, his voice dropping away towards the end.

The corner of Erik's lip twitched as he gave a sharp 'tsk', and a shake of his head. “Shame about what happened to that man, damn shame. But so is the fate of so many. I am honored to have you fighting by our side, and feel the warmth of the god's power in your presence, my fair Lady,” he said to Skuld with a small bow of his head. Herleif wondered if such buttered words would work on someone who looked like they could fell lesser men with her cold stare alone, but Skuld gave a polite bow in return.

It seemed that Erik really did have a way of putting those around him at ease, and even Herleif had to admit that he was taken with the man's friendly introduction. Nevertheless he still remained wary for now. He could remember a time when a younger, less formidable Erik began solidifying his power in Valkenheim through cunning strategy and brutal action against Vikings, Knights and Samurai alike. Though Erik gleamed of gold, Herleif knew that Erik was not afraid of a little splash of red.

The servant returned with horns of mead for everyone, and Magnus took them and began to quickly hand them out. He served his father first, and then Ivar who remained seated and silent, with Herleif, Gunnar and Skuld all following. Skuld shook her head in refusal of the horn, and for a moment Herleif wondered when she ever found the time to remove her helmet in private so that she could eat and drink. Obviously she must have her ways, but for now she was just as much a mystery to him as when she had first arrived at his hall. 

Thankfully her refusal sparked no offense to Erik, who barely seemed to notice as he raised his horn into the air. “To the gods, to honor and a chest full of treasure to bring home! Soon we will be raiding into Ashfeld, and we will make those whoresons wish that they had never been born. Skol!”

As the Golden Jarl gave his toast, Herleif noticed Ivar staring at him as he lounged in his seat, eyes glinting from beneath his horned helmet. There was a small grin curved at the corner of his lips, silent and judging. Herleif betrayed no emotion as he looked back, but felt hairs bristle on the back of his neck and his stomach tighten as he looked at the man who had attacked his lands just this past winter.

“Skol!” repeated Magnus and Gunnar together, raising up their own horns before tipping them back along with Erik drinking with loud and eager gulps. Herleif remained silent, as too did Ivar, their horns still in their hands as they stared at each other from across the gathering.

This time Erik did not miss the offense, and he looked curiously between his two fellow Jarls. “It is good mead gentleman, made with the sweetest honey in all of Valkenheim. It would be a shame to waste it, and a poor way to start off this venture together. Refusing good mead is a slight that even the gods would be hard pressed to forgive.”

Herleif flicked his eyes over to Erik before looking back at Ivar, a silent battle of wills brewing between them. “I'm sorry Erik, I mean no offense, though I cannot speak for Ivar here. It is not the quality of your mead that I have issue with, but rather the company with whom I'm meant to drink in.” That earned a small breath of laughter from Ivar, his smirk growing just a hint bigger.

Erik's slowly nodded his head as he sighed. “I am aware of the slight that Ivar has made against you and your hold, Herleif,” he said as he turned and headed back to his seat. He sat down in a huff and pointed over at the smirking Warlord. “He and I have discussed the matter at length before your arrival, and Ivar has assured me that he is willing to give up a portion of his spoils from this raid to make up for the blood shed on your lands. The blood-price for your people will be paid, and all will be well. I see no reason why we cannot drink together as friends now. No, as brothers even. Are we not to have each other's interests in mind going forward into enemy lands?” he argued.

Old Wolf came to stand behind his master's seat, eyes gleaming sharply under the golden eagle that perched over his brow. It was clear to all present that an argument was brewing among the Jarls, and the Highlander's hands tightened ever so slightly around the grip of his sword.

“So blood is spilled on my lands and you two make deals behind my back? Am I just to take your word on it then?” Herleif asked, giving voice to his growing frustration.

Erik tensed up in his seat, his eyes turning cold. “My word is golden, Herleif. You would do well not to question it.”

Herleif forced himself to rip his gaze away from Ivar and look at Erik, but that infuriating grin was like a target just begging for his blade. “No amount of gold is going to bring back the lives lost during that attack. It is not a question of payment, Erik, but of trust. How can you expect me to go raiding with this man... this dog, when he has openly attacked my hold and my people. When Gunnar first told me of your invitation I had half a mind to refuse it outright!”

Now Erik frowned, his good mood completely gone. “Thankfully, and to the credit of your brother, he was able to dissuade you of making such a foolish and poor decision,” he said grimly, staring at Herleif with growing annoyance.

As unnerving as it was to stare down one of the most powerful Jarls in all of Valkenheim, Herleif refused to back down, directing all of his frustration towards Erik now for orchestrating this meeting in the first place. That was until Ivar finally spoke. 

“They were just stretching their legs,” Ivar said casually, his sly grin giving way to a yellow toothed smile in his black beard.

Herleif's attention shot back to Ivar, eyes narrowing. “What was that?” he hissed. The ease with which Ivar addressed him was offensive. Aside from whatever plan Erik had with this raid, part of Herleif's reason for coming here was to confront the Jarl who had come uninvited into his lands. Seeing Ivar lounging in his chair, stroking a slave girl's hip, one would think that it was all just a big joke to him. 

Ivar had earned his by-name 'the Red' years ago while laying waste to a Knight citadel and leaving no survivors, but he had never done anything to dissuade his neighbors and other Vikings from using the moniker as well.

“They were just stretching their legs, those men,” Ivar continued, “They were bored. Stuck inside for too long and wanting to get out a bit before winter. Their blood got hot and their bellies were empty, so they decided to do something about it. I didn't know what they were going to do. They were from a small village, and I have many in my hold. They acted on their own, I had no part in it.” Raising his hand, he held his fingers apart defensively. “They were just men getting a bit of exercise. Can't fault them for that.”

Herleif's blood boiled in his veins, his vision going red. “You can't fault-?! My people died for this insolence!” He roared, taking a step towards Ivar. Deep down he knew that Ivar was only baiting him, but the anger had been bubbling so long within him that he couldn't help but let it all out now. Gunnar got in his way, stopping him from taking things too far.

“It was winter. Bad things happen in winter. This is the way of things, we all know it,” Ivar said with a lazy shrug. The slave girl sat quietly upon his lap, one hand rubbing across his chest as she watched the drama unfold with a keen interest.

Erik leaned forward in his chair, knuckles turning white as he gripped his drinking horn tightly. “That is enough, Ivar! This should have never happened in the first place. You should have known what those men were planning.”

“I say he did know!” Herleif shouted next, throwing his horn of mead to the ground and pointing an accusing finger at Ivar over his brother's shoulder, “That was no rabble of hungry farmers, they were seasoned warriors to the man. They fought hard, and died hard as well! I say this was all done on your order!” Once again he recalled the slaying of Sitvek Stone-Breaker, dying in the snow. That Ivar could just shrug off such death now made him want to rip the bastard's head off.

“Where is your proof?” Ivar demanded, looking none to bothered in his seat. Turning down his own horn, he turned to Erik as the mead splashed across the stone floor. “Erik this is pointless. I cannot sail with this man. He will not listen to reason.”

Erik looked down at the spilled mead as it wet the stones and soaked into the dirt, then glared up between Ivar and Herleif angrily. “That was expensive mead you both just wasted. Now on top of everything else you give insult to me as well! To Niflheim with the both of you! I will not stand to have this raid fall apart before it has even begun. I demand that this matter be settled now!” He snapped, slamming his fist on the arm of his chair, “Gunnar, let your brother go. If he will not accept the blood-price in gold and silver then he will take it in blood directly. Ivar, I will hear no refusal from you on this either. I brought you both here aid me, not wage your own battles. You will settle this score now and you'll do it as warriors! Bloody yourselves and bring this feud to and end!”

Herleif handed his sword and shield over to Gunnar, then pushed past him to step forward and wait for Ivar to meet him. His blood was up now, and he flexed his fingers before closing them into tight fists, bringing them up and ready for a fight. 

Ivar let out a long sigh as if just getting up from his seat was an inconvenience. Patting the slave girl's thigh, he stood up as she slipped away, walking with no true urgency until he took up his position and mirrored Herleif's stance. They stared at each other silently for a brief moment, each sizing the other up as they waited for the command to begin.

“Does the name Sitvek Stone-Breaker mean anything to you?” Herleif growled under his breath so that only Ivar could hear.

“Should it?” Ivar asked, the calm expression never leaving his face.

Herleif gave a little nod of his head. “I'll make sure that it will.”

Erik raised his hand into the air. “Fight with honor before the gods until the blood-price is paid,” he called out. Then he chopped his hand down through the air, shouting, “Begin!”

Herleif instantly jabbed with his right fist, slamming it into Ivar's arm as he blocked the blow. Ivar countered, but Herleif stepped aside and thrust forward with his head. The headbutt hit nothing but air as Ivar dodged, backing away to get himself some room. The first few strikes had been made in only a handful of seconds as the two Warlords stared each other down like snarling wolves.

Eager cries of support rose up from the guards and warriors standing around watching, but Herleif ignored them and focused on nothing but Ivar. Everything else faded away, the shouting voice of his brother, the jeers from Ivar's men, Magnus' gleeful howl and Erik's judgmental stare as he watched them both like gems to be weighed and measured for his hoard. None of it mattered now. Nothing existed beyond his need to collect his blood-price form Ivar's flesh. “Come on then,” he snarled, beckoning Ivar closer with a pump of his arms. 

Perhaps Ivar did not want to be thought of as a coward, or maybe he just wanted this fight over with as quick as possible, but he cautiously approached with his fists raised defensively. Herleif made a wide jab to the right, but feinted and punched straight ahead. The feint worked, and he felt his fist connect with Ivar's ribs, causing the Warlord to groan as Herleif jabbed forward again with all his strength. The first hit gave him enough of an opening to connect his other fist with Ivar's jaw, striking him while he was winded. Herleif had landed the first two blows, but still there was no blood. 

Though dazed, Ivar recovered quickly. He charged at Herleif with an angry roar, grappling him and trying to force him to the ground. Herleif managed to stay on his feet, but caught Ivar's fist across his left cheek. White spots flashed in his eyes, and he quickly blinked them away so that he could block the next punch coming at him. He pushed Ivar back, but kept close to press with his own attack. Again he jabbed for Ivar's ribs, missing once, twice, but landing the third blow. Ivar winced, but grabbed hold of Herleif's arm under his own, keeping it pinned just long enough to throw back his head and bringing it crashing down against Herleif's face. 

If Herleif had not been wearing his helmet then his nose would have undoubtedly been crushed to a pulp under the force of the blow. Thankfully he was able to stay standing and keep his wits about him, but that didn't mean the blow hurt any less. Through eye watering pain he felt hot blood flowing through his mustache and could taste metal in his mouth.

Ivar spotted the dripping red and smiled. “Look how he bleeds for his people! You're a stubborn bastard Herleif, I'll give you that,” he laughed. 

Herleif grunted, then hocked pooling blood in his mouth and spit it on the ground. “To Hel with you, Ivar,” he spat, feeling that there was no other point to be made. Ivar laughed again, then stepped forward as they both took up their positions again. 

Springing forward, Ivar juked to the side and tried to grapple at Herleif again. Herleif blocked and pushed him away, striking quickly with his fists for a one two punch to Ivar's face. His knuckles came away red, slick with blood from Ivar's lips. From the foggy look in his eye it was clear that the black bearded Warlord was dazed, so Herleif pressed the attack. He struck at Ivar's jaw again, but the hit seemed to jolt the man out of his trance instead of take him down. Ivar dodged the next punch, sidestepping and hurling himself at Herleif, tackling him head long and sending them both tumbling to the ground. 

Herleif hit the stone floor hard, making him groan sharply as Ivar landed on top of him. He barely had a moment to orient himself to his new perspective of the world around him before the punches started to rain down from above. Ivar's fists connected with his jaw at least twice before he was able to bring up his arms to defend himself. He could feel Ivar clawing at his wrists, trying to pull his arms out of the way to keep pummeling into submission. Right then Herleif gave a twist of his hips, throwing all of his weight into the motion to try and dislodge Ivar from on top of him.

Ivar's foot must have slipped on the dirty stones as he tried to brace himself, because he suddenly lurched to the side and Herleif felt himself become free. He rolled with the momentum, toppling Ivar over and sliding upward so that their positions were reversed. Ivar roared with anger, immediately trying to counter by reaching up and grabbing for Herleif's arms once again, but to no avail. Herleif pushed past Ivar's flailing defense, managing to grab the Warlord by his collar and slamming his closed fist into Ivar's face. The man's head lulled on his shoulders, throwing his hands up in a desperate attempt to push Herleif away, only to receive another blow just as devastating as the first. Blood splattered from between Ivar's lips and sprayed onto the stones as his head smacked against the ground. 

Herleif continued to strike his fists into Ivar's face again and again and again. “Bastard! Sitvek died for you! He died for nothing!” he yelled, feeling only numbing pain as he turned his knuckles red with Ivar's blood, “You will pay for his death and all the rest!”

“Enough!” Erik roared as he sprung up his seat. His booming voice echoed out over the crowed, bringing everyone to attention even if they were no where near the fight. The music stopped playing, and everyone turned to look at the golden Jarl as he stood tall and bright. All except for Herleif, who continued to beat Ivar into the ground as if it were his sole purpose in life. “The blood-price has been paid! Separate them before the man is dead!” Erik yelled.

At once Gunnar and Skuld stepped in to grab Herleif off of Ivar, pulling him away even as he fought against them to get free. “No! I will see him dead! This is but a pittance of what he owes!” Herleif cried through clenched teeth as he was pulled him away. Opposite them Magnus and some of Ivar's men came to scoop him up off the ground, dragging him back to place him in his seat. The Warlord's face was covered in blood that spilled from his lips and nose, his head rolling on his shoulders as he was propped up against the back of his chair. 

“That's enough Herleif,” Gunnar hissed at his brother, “The fight is over. I'd say you've won good and plenty by now.”

Herleif felt anything but calmed by Gunnar's words, wrenching himself away from his brother and the Valkyrie. “What do you know of it? You weren't there! You did not witness the needless slaughter of fellow Vikings!” he shouted, giving Gunnar a hard shove.

“Enough of this bickering!” Erik yelled, marching right up to Herleif and grabbing him by the collar of his armor, “I have said that the blood-price is paid, and it will be so. Death is a fate that awaits us all. It is the hope of any of us that it will come with steel clutched in our hands. What has happened in your lands has happened a hundred times before, and it will happen a hundred times again! We are Vikings! We fight, we die, and that is how we live.”

Herleif slapped Erik's hands away and stepped back, pointing around him towards Ivar who remained limp in his chair. “I will have nothing short of this man's head for what he has done. For the crimes he has committed against my people and his own!”

Erik's eyes flashed angrily from beneath his helmet. With a look like that it was easy to understand that he was a man used to having things his way without question. “I will not have my plans undone before they have even begun. I asked both you and Ivar here because I need you by my side for what we are about to do, Herleif. I need both of you, alive and working together. Working with me!” he said sharply, slapping a hand on his chest.

It was the moment that Herleif had been waiting for, perhaps even more so than his chance to confront Ivar. Panting hard, he looked straight into Erik's eyes and grinned. “So you admit that this is more then just a simple raid. That you want my men for something more.” All of his worry and hesitation towards Erik's invitation seemed justified in that moment, but the growing shadow over Erik's face gave him little reason to feel pleased for long.

“Yes, I need your men, and your ships,” Erik growled, voice low and threatening, “and perhaps that is all I need if you insist on making things difficult.”

Herleif's grin faded away. Stepping in closer he squared up against the other Warlord, trying to ignore the pain stinging across his body and face to focus on matching Erik's growing aggression. “Is that a threat?”

“I'm making you an offer. I suggest that you at least hear me out before you decide to take any rash action here.” With a wave of his hand Erik signaled for Old Wolf lifted who his claymore up over one shoulder and stepped forward, as well as a dozen of Erik's warriors, all of them with hands upon the hilts of their weapons and grim looks upon their faces. Herleif didn't have to think hard to realize that he, Gunnar and Skuld were impossibly outnumbered. Even if his own forces were here with him now, Erik had the most men present in the entire fortress, not that any of Ivar's Headhunter warriors would feel inclined at all to help.

Licking his bloody lips, Herleif gave a little nod as he chuckled to himself softly. In a way this was a mess of his own making. As much as he might like to blame Erik for playing him with half truths, or Ivar for sparking an anger in him that he could hardly control, deep down he knew that he only had himself to blame. The true reason of why he had come here was actually quite simple. He was curious. He wanted to know what it was that Erik had up his sleeve, and what role he might play in it. It was his goal to see his home and his people kept safe and secure, but it was in his heart to live and fight as a Viking.

“Alright,” he said, his grin returning to his lips, “Alright, I'll hear you out. But whatever you have planned Erik, it better be worth a song my son's grandsons will be singing for years to come.”

Erik opened his mouth and looked as if he had more to say, but he never got the chance as a sharp coughing and hacking rang up behind him. Looking over Erik's shoulder to see what was the cause of such a horrid noise, and spotted Ivar spitting up blood as he struggled to sit up. “Let'im c-come...” he grunted with flecks of red spraying from his lips, squinting at Herleif with one eye, the other swollen shut. He tried to stand, pushing himself up with a groan. Magnus moved to get him to sit again, but Ivar shoved him away. The man wavered in the air, and leaned forward, and spit a dark sticky glob of phlegm and blood onto the ground. Watching Ivar struggle his way up onto his feet, Herleif supposed that he hadn't earned a by-name like 'the Red' without being too stubborn to just lay down and die. He stared in disbelief as Ivar found his footing, lifted his balled fists and shuffled forward with every intention of continuing the fight. “I'm... not down yet... pig fucker,” Ivar spat.

Erik took one look at Ivar's beaten face and hung his head with a groan. “Fenrir take me, why is nothing I try to do ever easy? Right, we shall put an end to this nonsense once and for all. Herleif, if you will not take the blood-price as it is paid then blood will bind you and Ivar in another way.”

Herleif wasn't sure he liked what Erik was getting at, but the sight of those armed men surrounding the area around the stone sword made him think twice before questioning Erik further. The Golden Jarl looked between Herleif and Ivar, lifting his chin as he declared their fate in a loud voice for all to hear. “You will use the blood that you have already shed here to swear brotherhood to each other from this night forward. You will be blood brothers, and your bond will that of kin. There will be no more feuds between you after this, and we will all find the peace that we need to move this raid forward. Now swear it!”

Ivar dropped his fists and stared with his one good eye at Erik like he was the one with the ugly beaten face. “Erik... you can't be serious...”

“Oh I am very serious, Ivar. So serious that if you two don't set aside your pride right now and swear to each other for peace, then my next command will see all of your blood spilled out onto the stones.” Erik snarled. 

It seemed that there was no other option. Erik, much like the gold that he so coveted, could have a wicked hold on those around him. There was no doubt in his mind that at a single command from Erik every warrior eager for coin and recognition would jump to do his bidding.

Herleif looked over his shoulder at Gunnar, who looked rather uncomfortable with the situation at best. No doubt he felt torn between supporting Herleif and Erik, between his older brother and the man who had fed his hopes for glory with so many tales of battle and victory. Herleif didn't blame him, this matter was beyond any of their control now.

Lifting his fingers to his lips, Herleif coated them in slick blood, then rubbed it into the palm of his hand. Stepping forward, he held out his hand towards Ivar, red palm glinting in the firelight around them as he waited for the other Warlord to take it. Ivar looked at Herleif for a moment before his gaze turned to the number of Erik's warriors surrounding them. He just stood there, leaving the yard quiet as all looked on. Herleif was actually beginning to wonder if Ivar was truly about to refuse Erik's command, and began to think on how hard it would be for he and his men to fight there way out of the fortress and back to their ships.

Then without warning, Ivar spat blood into his hand and slapped it into Herleif's. Blood stuck to blood as they gripped each other's hands, and Herleif met Ivar's unflinching gaze even though the man was a ruin to look at. He felt no less hate for the other Warlord then when he had first arrived, but for now their feud was at an end by law. With this sacred pact before all present and the gods above. They were to honor each other and stand shoulder to shoulder together against whatever struggles the future might hold. It was only a weak and greedy man that broke a pact like this, and Herleif would be damned if he was ever labeled in such a way against a dog like Ivar the Red.

“Brothers,” he said, squeezing Ivar's bloody slick hand within his own.

Ivar squeezed back like he was trying to crush bone into powder. “Brothers.”

“Allfather be praised! Now we can all rest a bit more easy,” Erik cried out, throwing his hands up into the air once the pact was made. At his words Old Wolf and the men surrounding them eased back, hands falling away from their weapon as Erik continued, although Old Wolf looked to wear a disappointed frown under his beard as he looked on. “You will forgive me if I do not offer up anymore mead. I am pleased that we have all been able to get past this issue, but a waste of good mead will be a sting felt for a long time yet. Besides, we have plans to discuss and we have already wasted half the evening with your little brawl.”

Herleif sighed through his nose, trying not to dwell on how Erik continued to belittle the grievance he felt had been done. He held Ivar's hand for just a moment longer, then pulled it away and gave his back to the man. “Well I for one am very interested in what you have to say. What is this grand scheme that you have in mind, exactly?” he asked Erik as he walked back to Gunnar and Skuld, doing his best to wipe some of the drying blood from his palm.

A sly grin spread across Erik's lips beneath his blonde beard. “Ah, it is a fine scheme indeed, and quite the tale to tell as well. I can promise you that nothing of its like has ever been carried out before. But I feel that I alone cannot tell it all.” Walking forward towards the stone steps, he patted Herleif on the shoulder as he passed by, acting as if they hadn't all been ready to kill each other just a moment ago. “Everyone follow me. There are some people that I would like you all to meet.” With that he descended down the steps with Magnus and Old Wolf following behind. 

Herleif looked to Gunnar to see if he had any clue as to who Erik might be referring to, but his brother just shrugged his broad shoulders. “This whole fucking thing has been a surprise to me,” he said, speaking quietly, “If I had known Ivar would end up as your blood brother...” his voice trailed away and he looked ashamed.

“Think nothing of it,” smiled Herleif, patting his brother's arm, “If I can handle having an ass like you as a brother all these years, then I can surely deal with a man who wants nothing to do with me. At least this way he is sure to keep his distance for awhile.” That seemed to earn a sheepish grin from Gunnar, which was all Herleif could ask for given the circumstances. “Come on, lets go see who these mysterious guests of Erik's are and finally find out what this plan of his is really all about.”

Turning to follow Erik down the steps, Herleif felt the shiver of eyes watching him. He looked over to see Ivar still standing where he had been when they had shaken hands and sworn to each other as blood brothers. He glared back at Herleif silently, his one good eye burning full of hate and anger.


	6. In the Enemy's Company

Priscilla Arentii twirled her dagger between her fingers without looking, idly passing the time and trying not to think about the Viking clans that were gathered just outside of the small cave she resided in. She could hear the dull sound of their primitive music and pagan songs going on without end, except for a short moment where everything had gone strangely quiet, but whatever had happened seemed to have passed without incident. A part of her half expected to see a thousand screaming warriors come screaming for her blood at any moment, but so far her time sitting in a dark corner of the cave had gone undisturbed. Dwelling on such grim outcomes seemed counter productive anyway, considering that she had come to this horrid island voluntarily.

Flipping the dagger up into the air, she watched it spin around once, twice, three times and then snatched it by the grip as it fell.

“You're pretty good at that,” came the sound of a woman's voice next to her.

Priscilla flipped the dagger around and thrust the point at the Warden who had approached, taking only the slightest bit of satisfaction at watching the woman flinch away from the blade. “Thanks. Practice makes perfect,” she said, smiling behind the face plate of her hooded helmet. With a flick of her wrist, she twirled her Peacekeeper's dagger around and slipped it back into the sheath on her belt. “What can I do for you, Judith?”

The Warden remained tense for another moment, perhaps regretting her decision to approach in the first place. Finally she relaxed, her armor clinking softly as she took a seat next to Priscilla against the cavern wall, laying her longsword across her lap. “Ah, nothing really. Just trying to keep myself from getting bored I suppose. Being stuck in a cave for three days wasn't exactly what I had in mind by coming here.”

Priscilla gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “Beats spending three days in a prison, I guess. Not that getting to go outside wouldn't go unappreciated, but considering the company...” She looked over at the cave's entrance, directing Judith's attention towards the two Raiders standing guard. Priscilla figured that their presence was mostly just a formality, considering that two Vikings were hardly a match for thirty stir crazy Knights all trapped together inside this dry and dimly lit cave. A Viking horde though, that was a pretty good deterrent to keep anyone from doing something stupid during their stay.

Judith chuckled, tilting her helmet back against the cave wall with a small thunk of metal against rock. “You have a point. I guess we should consider ourselves lucky that Erik actually sent us wine and food. After what we've been through I almost feel like an honored guest.”

For a moment Priscilla observed the Warden silently from behind the protection of her helmet. She wasn't exactly sure how old Judith was, but she knew of a dozen or so battles that the Warden had fought in against the Vikings and Samurai. She was a seasoned warrior, and her skills as a leader are what had kept them all alive when the woeful path they had been forced upon had seemed hopeless. Her armor and sword were well made, indicating wealth, but scarred from constant use as of late, and the eagle ornament on top of her helmet had at some point lost a wing to a swinging blade. The journey that they had been on these last few months had left little time for rest and repair, and it showed in their shabby condition. Much like Priscilla's own armor, Judith's was colored in the red, white and gold of the northern Lion Flame Legion, protectors of Ashfeld's coasts from the Viking scourge. 

At least they had been, until everything they had known turned to shit.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Priscilla asked smoothly, knowing how to draw forth information from a person without making them feel uneasy. There was a time and place for using force, and for using subtly to get someone to open up. As a Peacekeeper she trained in both techniques.

Judith turned and looked at her through the thin visor of her helmet. “Second thoughts? No. Regret?” she sighed deeply, “There is much in this life that I regret now. So many things I wish I could have done differently. Strangely though, coming here is probably the thing that I regret the least. For now, anyway. Funny how life has a way of turning out in a way you least expect.”

Priscilla nodded, but said nothing. If Judith was full of regret then that was her burden to bear. As far as she was concerned she still had a purpose despite whatever may have happened back in Ashfeld. Her blades may remain silent and clean for now, but they would prove useful again soon enough.

Glancing around the cave she looked at the other Knights standing together in small groups or just sitting around. Wardens, other Peacekeepers, a few Lawbringers, all of them once proud fighters in Ashfeld's defense. Hell, there was even a wayward Gladiator that had somehow gotten mixed up with their sorry little band. A few were helping themselves to the food and drink brought to them from the feast outside, but most just skulked around like old dogs too worn out to be bothered by anything around them. None of them looked very proud or impressive in the gloom of the cave. 

There was a sense of quiet desperation that hung over them, a collective holding of breath as they all just waited to see what would happen next. No doubt many of them carrying around the same kind of regret as Judith, though Priscilla couldn't say that she really felt sorry for any of them. The teachings of the old Blackstone Warlord popped into her head, and she wondered how many of these Knights might fidget and squirm if she dared to utter the word 'sheep' in their presence. 

There was one other among them who seemed to remain standing tall and unperturbed by their current situation. A lone Conqueror, simply known as Coal, brought into their ranks not long before everything had gone wrong. Throughout all of their little band's troubles, Coal had always seemed to get through it without issue. Perhaps after being conscripted as a lowly prisoner and then put on the front lines of Ashfeld's worst battles, that he now had no more reason to be upset about being dragged from one hostile environment to another. It was just the life he was used to.

Priscilla looked over in the Conqueror's direction, and he turned to look back at her. For a moment they held each other's gaze, until it became clear that Coal wasn't going to look away and things began to feel awkward. Thankfully at that moment the two Raiders stood up straight, bringing everyone's attention to the cave's entrance. It seemed that they had visitors.

“I tell you, Herleif, you'll think me mad for this, really you will. But trust me when I say the whole thing is planned out.” Came a booming voice echoing against the cavern walls. It was the voice of someone who had the utmost confidence in their own bravado, so naturally it was Erik Golden-Shield doing the talking. Who this Herleif person was Priscilla didn't yet know, but seeing as she wasn't going anywhere else outside of the cave she wouldn't have to wait long to find out. Erik spoke in the northern tongue, but through her teachings and station in Ashfeld's northern coasts she knew enough to understand what they were saying.

As the two Raiders standing guard stepped to the side, Erik walked in leading a host of armored Vikings with him. At once Priscilla recognized Erik's son Magnus and his Highlander bodyguard who walked with him, but the accompanying Warlord and broad chested Raider were strangers. There was even a Valkyrie who walked behind the lot, small shield and spear in hand. Priscilla had never seen a Valkyrie up close before, and had to admit that she was more then a little intrigued at the prospect of meeting one of the fabled warrior women.

The little group made their way further into the cave, and by the look on the new Warlords face he had most certainly not been expecting a group of armed Knights to be sitting here waiting patiently as if they were the next round of entertainment ready to be presented to the feast. The open mouth shock that that he showed was amusing to say the least, if not a bit disconcerting for the tense moment where all waited to see how he might react next. 

“You're right, Erik, I think you are mad. What is the meaning of this?” the Warlord asked quietly, fists clenching as he scowled under the face plate of his horned helmet.

He was dressed in fine lamellar armor of small metal plates that was decorated and in good condition, colored in brown and gray with engraved knots upon the right pauldron. His helmet was of fine make, with curved horns along its dome and the face of what could only be called a sea demon fashioned upon the brow. It wasn't as bright or as gaudy display as Erik wore, but fine enough to mark him out as a Jarl, or at least a wealthy chief. Priscilla thought Jarl though, as Erik most likely wouldn't trust a mere chieftain with the knowledge of their presence just yet. The knowledge of their existence among the Vikings was a closely guarded secret, or at least Erik assured them that it was.

The so-called Golden Jarl smirked at his companion. “This, Herleif, is the plan,” he said with a knowing smile, clearly keeping his meaning hidden on purpose just to get a rise out of the other Warlord. It seemed that the only thing Erik liked to polish more then his gold was his own ego.

“Odin's beard, Erik, speak plain and explain yourself. Are they hostages? Prisoners?” Herleif said, glaring across the crowd of soldiers he knew only as his enemy, “Why aren't they all in chains?”

Why weren't they indeed. Priscilla honestly wouldn't mind all that much, even if it was just for the sake of appearance. By this point she could do with a bit of excitement to break up all the monotony and dour mood all around her.

The Raider with them scowled from beneath his own horned helmet, taking the time to look at each Knight before him with a grim frown. “Better question is why are they still alive? Are they being saved for sacrifice before the voyage? There are plenty here. Surely the gods will grant you all of their strength for this much blood.”

Erik looked at the Raider and held up a warning finger. “No. These are my honored guests, Gunnar. There will be no sacrifices made from this lot, I have given my word,” he said with a reassuring smile to all around, “My golden word!” he said for all to understand. From the clinking of armor and the way a few of the Knights gripped their weapons it didn't seem that everyone was totally convinced. The arrival of a few more Vikings didn't really shift the situation against the Knights, but the remaining horde that awaited them outside was still more then enough to give them pause.

Looking over at Judith, Erik waved his hand and bid her to approach. The Warden paused for a moment, arms resting on her knees as if considering if being called like a dog in front of the others was worth the risk of giving offense to a Viking Jarl that commanded hundreds, if not thousands of warriors. It seemed to Priscilla that she waited an awfully long time to make her decision, but in the end the Warden finally rose up from her seat and made her way over to her would be master.

“This is Lady Judith DeLaroux,” Erik said, pronouncing Judith's surname with surprising ease and grace. He spoke in the common tongue, which was understood between all the nations of Heathmoor, though his native accent was still think in his voice, “She is, or rather was, the commanding Warden of the Lion Flame Legion. Sadly though, the legion is no more, or at least it is no longer what it once was,” he smirked, again revealing less then what he truly knew, “All that is left of their loyal forces stands here before you now. Thirty sad and broken Knights pushed to the brink of all that is decent and fair just so they could survive. Isn't that right, Lady Judith?”

Judith's hand tightened on the grip of her longsword as she held it by her side. Even with her helmet on one could still imagine her jaw tensing tightly. “Yes.”

The bite in her voice was barely hidden, like a dog growling a small warning before an attack, but the Warlord Herleif seemed to take no notice. “The Lion Flame Legion, is it? I know that name. Know it because I've fought against it, as have many other Vikings. Hard warriors, and deep rooted in Ashfeld's northern lands too, as I understand it.”

“Weaklings all,” Came Gunnar's growling voice, “We've fought against the likes of you before, as our father did before us. You are nothing but weak kittens waiting to be drowned in the ocean as we sail off with everything you hold dear. I spit on your Legions, and say that your lone god is nothing before the strength of our many.” He turned his head down and spit at Judith's feet, then crossed his arms over his chest, staring her down as if daring her to make a move back.

Priscilla grinned beneath her helmet as she watched. Insulting Judith, the legion and God right from the start? The big man was feeling feisty. Slowly moving her hands to her belt, she let them hover over the grips of her sword and dagger, waiting to see if things were about to turn nasty.

Thankfully it seemed that Herleif had better sense then the Raider, stepping in and giving Gunnar a shove back. He looked to Judith next and offered up a cautious hand as she took an aggressive step forward. “Erik said that your legion is no more. What does he mean by that? If you are not here as prisoners, then what are you here as?” Squinting his eyes, Herleif took a step closer to the Warden, his voice dropping low as if his next words tasted sour upon his tongue. “Are you traitors? Deserters? What oaths have you broken by coming here?”

Many of the Knights about the cave seemed to tense up at Herleif's words, including Judith. “We are not traitors,” she hissed back. Erik let out a snort of laughter that surely stung the Warden even more, “Our oaths matter not when there is no longer any meaning to them. The Ashfeld we have all fought and died defending has abandoned us, forsaken us into the hands of mad cultists and butchers. Our homes are burned. Our families subjugated by wicked and unjust priests, forced to worship a false idol under pain of torture and death. Where once stood honor and duty now only exists greed and madness. We few here are all mad as well, mad enough to come seek the likes of you for help.”

An elegant and heartfelt declaration, Priscilla thought, sure to tug on the hearts of anyone with a mind for honor and a sense of duty towards others. Someone such as Herleif it seemed, given the way his grim frown seemed to soften as Judith went on. It was touching really, to know that even such primitive and stubborn barbarians could be moved by such theatrical words. Touching, and informative.

Herleif glanced over towards Erik, but he simply took a seat on a nearby table and frowned back at him gesturing at Judith as if to say that she as the one with all the answers to his questions. “Alright then, I'm listening,” Herleif said to the disgruntled Warden.

Judith hung her head a moment to compose herself, then pressed on knowing that at least her tale would be heard. “For months now, northern Ashfeld has been plagued by a group of religious zealots that worship the volcano Mount Ignis as a new god. They see the volcano as a holy deity, and call for all of Ashfeld to unite in worship of it's power. At first they were just a nuisance, a group of crazy cultists that had split from the Church, believing the volcano to be some sort of earthly manifestation of God's power. A wrathful power, capable of smiting their enemies and laying waste to their lands. Given the mounting battles against your kind and the Samurai, there were many eager to believe in such tales, and soon the cult began to grow in numbers. The legion council at Beaufort Stronghold were willing to turn a blind eye to their existence at the beginning. What was a small band of devout Knights to them so long as they still did their duty and fought as commanded. Only they didn't follow commands for very long.”

“Soon their priests began showing up all over Ashfeld. They were in every village, every city, every stronghold, spreading forth from the foot of the mountain like locusts. No one had suspected that their ranks would swell so quickly. It was like a inferno sparked from the embers of a forgotten campfire in a dry forest. Their message was clear, that the volcano would bring about new and merciless destruction upon our enemies, that the mountain would unleash black smoke and fire over the lands of Vikings and Samurai alike to deliver the good people of Ashfeld into a world of peace and tranquility. A world for good, God fearing folk, void of any threat of pain and suffering at the hands of heathens and infidels so long as they were willing to pledge their service to the protection of the volcano.”

Herleif shook his head. “Our assured destruction at the hands of a fire spewing mountain? Sounds like a lazy way to go about waging your wars. Why worry about doing the fighting yourselves with a God can just do it for you.”

Gunnar let out a gruff laugh, still itching for a chance to make a spark that would see the whole cave erupt into bloody violence. “Typical Ashfeld cowards. Always eager to let their so-called peaceful God do all the killing for them. No wonder they flock to the mountain, they're all to afraid to pick up a blade and get themselves bloody on their own.”

“We bloodied ourselves plenty before relenting to the heretic preaching of mad men,” Judith snapped back, “It didn't take long for the cult to grow in strength, and before anyone could see what was happening they had formed a new legion all on their own with no approval from the council or even the Lord-Warden himself. At the foot of Mount Ignis they took the Walled City and proclaimed themselves the Legion of the Divine Pyre. All who march under their banner exist only to see their word spread throughout the land, and to die in service of their priests. According to them all must come to worship under the might of the fiery mountain, or be slain as heretics.”

Herleif shook his head as he tried to make sense of everything he was hearing. “So a few Knights found a new god. That still doesn't explain what you are doing here. If they are such a problem for you, why don't your other legions march on the mountain and snuff them out for good?”

“Would you march on your own kin so easily, Viking?” Judith countered. “Whole families were ripped apart by this new faith. Lines drawn in the sand. Would you raise a sword against your own brother or sister? Set siege to the fortress where your wife or children have taken refuge, all because of what they believe in?”

That seemed to give the Vikings pause. Even a savage can have feelings for a wife, husband or child. It was amazing how a few differences in culture and belief could outweigh a dozen similarities shared between humans as a species. Priscilla had heard many scholars and holy men go on about how humans were the natural rulers of the world, greater then the animals they shared it with, but even beasts could get along with their own kind without waging total war.

Now it was Judith who laughed, though the noise sounded spiteful and absent any mirth from beneath her helmet. “As it turns out, the legion commanders didn't really give any thought to family or friends once they finally acted. They sent their forces into any town the Divine Pyre had cropped up in, arresting their priests and anyone who supported their rhetoric. It didn't matter who you were, so long as you were supporting the cultist's efforts. Panic set in among the villages to the south. Dozens were taken away to tower dungeons rather then have them join the growing legion at the volcano. But by that point the cult had already spread throughout the north. They never attempted to march on the Walled City, to really take on the leaders of the Divine Pyre. Oh they broke people down and sought to retain a sense of order close to their own strongholds, but God forbid they ever make the effort to march north and help those who truly needed it.”

“But why not?' asked Gunnar. Herleif turned and gave the Raider a look, seemingly surprised by the sudden interest in Judith's tale. Gunnar shrugged. “Well, if they're rounding up the supporters, why not march on the stronghold? Take the head off the snake and all that.”

“Because it was a numbers game,” Judith answered. Her head hung low again, as if despite everything she had already said, this was the part that hurt the most. “The Lord-Warden was not willing to risk open civil war, not with the Samurai encroaching from the Myre and you Viking raiding from across the sea in greater numbers each season. If they had marched on the Walled City then the outcome would only be more dead Knights. Thousands more. Possibly more then we could ever come back from.”

“The end of Ashfeld,” Magnus sneered, patting his father's shoulder excitedly, “The end of the Knights and their puny God.” Erik grinned at his son, but said nothing and allowed Judith to continue.

“Aye, I don't deny it. The volcano worshipers are too devout to see reason, and would no doubt fight to the last man in defense of Mount Ignis. A war like that would have left us crushed, hopelessly vulnerable to attack from either you or the Samurai. It was then that the legion commanders decided to cut their losses and abandon the north to the Divine Pyre entirely. They fortified the new border between them and the volcano, letting their lost territory act as a buffer while they turned their attention to the east against the Samurai.”

“And they left you to burn in the volcano's fire, is that it? Beaufort abandoned you at your posts, cut you loose like useless cargo on a stormy sea. Now you want to reclaim your home,” Herleif said, starting to understand the bigger picture at hand, “But why not try to make it back to Beaufort Stronghold and regroup with the other legions? Why come to us?”

Priscilla leaned forward where she sat and looked over the new Warlord. He was a cunning one, this Herleif, with a cool head as well. He didn't seem to have the same kind of inflated bravado as Erik, and none of the grim blood lust as the one called Ivar the Red. Priscilla would have to keep an eye on him going forward. Cool heads often prevail as they say, which was only a welcoming thought if those heads remained on your side. To her mind, a partnership like this hardly qualified as such, but it was better then going after the Divine Pyre alone. Better to think of these Vikings as a mutual acquaintance seeking the beneficial destruction of a third party.

Judith shook her head in frustration. This was an old tale by now, one that she had told many times to anyone who had a mind to listen. “For centuries our families have defended Ashfeld's northern lands, standing at the forefront of every raid and war while our leaders sat comfortably secluded behind high walls. Time and time again you barbarians have marched over the bodies of our fallen comrades, pillaging and burning without end. But still we fought, because what else could we do? We believed that we were fighting for something more then just honor and glory, more then just our own lives. We believed we were fighting for a world where our families could live in peace, where our children could grow without fear of a heathen's axe hanging over their heads. That was the Ashfeld we fought for, and all of it was gone in an instant, signed away with a quill and ink on parchment by weak fools who would rather see to their own estates than make any effort to defend the people who depend on them.” 

“Hear, hear,” said a red and gold Lawbringer, tapping the bottom of his poleaxe against the rocky ground. A number of the other Knights gave approving nods, and tapped their fists against their chests in solidarity to the Warden in who they trusted with their lives. Priscilla remained silent and still, holding her own opinions on who to trust for the moment, which for now was quite simply no one.

“For years I held faith that God and our leaders would always see us through the terror that came at us from across the cold sea, but never once did I think that our doom would come from within our own ranks,” Judith continued, “Now I only hold faith to this. Ashfeld is weak. There is no more strength in the legions or those who command them. Their righteous talk of God and duty counts for nothing. All they ever think to do when the walls of their order begin crumbling down is to try and cover the cracks, and hope that enough warriors die so that they might continue to rule. But you... you Vikings,” Judith went on, pointing a finger at Herleif and the others, “...you have no such fear of what terror war holds. You are all mad and savage like animals. For a time I believed you would gladly slaughter your own children to quench your thirst for blood, but now I see the clarity behind the blood lust. You win. By whatever means, by whatever cost, you break down your foe until there is nothing left of them remaining and you win.”

Herleif squinted at the Warden from beneath his helmet “So you wish us to attack when your leaders would not. Bold of you to come to us seeking aid. Stupid even, but I suppose your God still protects you in some way if he delivered you to a Viking fool enough to listen,” he said, glancing over at Erik next to him, “But what about your kin among the cultists? What makes you think we will show them any mercy compared to your legions? Perhaps I do feel a powerful thirst for blood, Warden. Could take a number of slain Ashfeld citizens to quench it.”

“You jest, heathen, but this decision does not come easy to me,” Judith went on, “The damage to our homes is already done, and the roots of the volcano's madness run deep. Once the legion commanders abandoned the north to the cultists, warriors of the Divine Pyre swept through the cities weeding out any who did not bow to their ideology. Any who did not believe in the volcano's power was branded a heretic and executed. Homes were burned, lands and possessions were confiscated. People lived in fear of Pyre Lawbringers marching through the streets seeking out non-believers, and everywhere dishonored Peacekeepers watched from the shadows for any signs of dissent. The cultists have already left a bloody scar on their path to total control. I hardly think that you Vikings could do worse to anything that is left.”

There it was, Judith's final confession laid bare. Priscilla had to give the Warden credit. For as many times as this plan had been discussed, Judith had never wavered or shied away from seeing it through. To do this meant dishonor for them all, abandoning all of their oaths and beliefs to seek the aid of barbarians, and it would most certainly would result in the deaths of many Ashfeld citizens. They would be fighting against warriors who had once been their brothers and sisters, and standing alongside those who had once been their hated enemy. Hardly an easy task for any Knight to see through, let alone those who had been through Hell and back just to get to this point.

None of that mattered to Priscilla though, not now. All she needed was for Judith to hold true to the plan and set the Vikings on a bloody path against the cultists. So far two Jarls had agreed to join them, and third would certainly increase the odds of success even more. Herleif need only to agree, to cast in his support, and they would be underway to liberate Ashfeld from tyrannical rule, so long as the Vikings left enough behind to pick up the pieces afterwards.

Once Judith finished speaking Herleif turned and leaned in towards Erik, speaking quietly to the other Jarl. Seeing this Priscilla stood up from her seat and began weaving her way through the Knights spread throughout the cave. She got close enough to where she could just make out what the two Warlords were discussing, remaining as still as a statue to avoid bringing attention to herself.

“...my warriors for some Knight's errand?” she heard Herleif whisper, clearly having issue with putting his men in harms way for the benefit of someone who was supposed to be his enemy. He went on still, his voice low and grim. “How do you know they can be trusted?”

Erik smiled softly, giving a little nod of his head as if he understood Herleif's worry, but had the perfect way to put his friend at ease. He looked over at the Warden and spoke loud enough for all to hear. “Judith, everything you have just told us, would you say it to your Lord-Warden as well if he were here with us now?”

“Would I say the same to him?” Judith repeated, sounding rather amused, “No, I would say nothing to him. If the Lord-Warden was here, I would cut the weak bastard down myself.” That got a few more cheers from the Knights around her.

Erik nodded again, and held his hand out to Judith as he looked to Herleif, satisfied with the Warden's answer. “There, you see? She seeks blood, Herleif. They all do. That is enough assurance for me. Besides, she knows that if she is lying I will kill her for the trouble.”

Herleif said nothing, stroking his beard silently in thought. Priscilla could see through his stoic display though. At the very least he felt swayed by Judith's words, and perhaps that was enough to get him to give his support. Regardless of what outcome Judith and these renegade Knight might seek, Herleif was a Viking with a need to raid to see his power flourish. It was in his nature and would see this as a great opportunity rather then a detriment, or so Priscilla had to believe.

“What's in it for us?” asked Gunnar, “What can you promise us for dealing with your volcano troubles?”

“We will give you the vault of the Walled City, along with any spoils taken along the journey,” Judith answered without hesitation , “Our homes in Ashfeld are gone. We have no need for whatever you might find there and can carry away.”

Herleif looked back at the Warden. “What is in this vault?”

At that Judith turned and raised a hand over to Priscilla, motioning her to approach. “This is Priscilla Arentii. As ranking Peacekeeper among our legion it was her job to relay intelligence between us and Beaufort Stronghold. She discovered much about what the cultists were doing around the Walled City before the Lord-Warden cut ties with the north.”

Priscilla stepped forward and gave a small bow of her head to the Jarls. This was her time to sweeten the deal, and see to it that the Viking's lust for blood was matched only by their desire for treasure. “Once the legions had pulled out of the north, the cultists had free reign to do as they pleased throughout their new territories,” she began, speaking clearly as she looked from one Jarl to the other, “Like most tyrannical powers, they immediately began to grab and confiscate any source of wealth for themselves, proclaiming that material riches were to be devoted to the power of the volcano. Estates were raided, cities ransacked. Even churches were not exempt, and were put to fire as places of heretical worship once they were looted. Anyone with a silver candlestick or ornate goblet had it taken from them, usually at the end of a sword. The wealth was taken to the Walled City and stored in its vault where only the high priests of the volcano are allowed to enter.”

“All of northern Ashfeld's treasure gathered in one place,” Erik said as he raised a single finger into the air, “Imagine it, Herleif. A horde so great our halls will glow with the gleaming light of Valhalla itself.”

“And they've already done all the work for us, damn fools,” Magnus added with a grin, “All that's left is the slaughter and it's all ours. It's almost a shame how easy it will be.”

Judith shook her head in annoyance at the young Berserker. “Don't be so foolish, boy. These cultists have put the majority of their forces on the foot of the Mount Ignis itself. Thousands gather there to worship the volcano, and are more than willing to die fighting for it if they must. Taking the Walled City will not be as simple as you think.”

“Then it will be a great day for wetting my axes with Ashfeld blood at the least,” Magnus snarled, stepping forward and already reaching for the weapons that dangled on his belt. He only stopped as Skuld lowered her spear into his path and pushed him back. That earned her a sharp glare from Old Wolf and Magnus both, but the Valkyrie ignored it in her usual fashion.

“Enough, boy,” Gunnar interrupted, nodding at Skuld for settling the situation quickly. “What are they doing with all that treasure? Do they seek to trade with it? I did not think your people could take wealth with them to the afterlife.”

“They sacrifice it,” Priscilla answered, “They throw it into the volcano as tribute, let it melt. They believe it gives the mountain the power it needs to protect them.” She paused for a moment, just to relish the stunned and horrified look on Gunnar's face as he thought of all that treasure being wasted. “Or at least that is what they tell their followers. If they say it is for the good of their new God then they can take whatever they want. In truth they simply hoard it. These priests claim to be pious and devout, but it is all a veil to hide their greed and vanity. There is nothing truly religious about them.” 

“Thank the gods,” Gunnar sighed with relief, “For a moment I feared we would arrive to late to save it all.”

Erik gave the Raider a hearty chuckle. “Thank the gods indeed. There is much in this vault that I would like to lay my hands on, although there is one piece of treasure in particular that stands out to me among the rest. Go on Peacekeeper, tell them of the true prize.”

Priscilla hardly shared the Jarl's interest in what resided inside the vault, but if it meant directing the wrath of these heathens upon her enemy then she was more then happy to share. “As word of the cultists power spread there were many who flocked to join their ranks. Most were the poor and downtrodden, but there were some from Ashfeld's upper echelons who saw the rise of the Divine Pyre as a way to increase their own influence beyond what it was among the legions. One such person was a wealthy, but mid-ranking Lawbringer named Vincent Chaldeon. His family had important political ties in Beaufort and with the Lord-Warden, but Vincent never seemed to rise to the great heights he aspired to achieve. Disgruntled with his position he abandoned his legion and set out to join the cultists when they promised him a position as a prominent leader within their order, but not without first ransacking the Beaufort treasury for whatever he could get his hands on. Before he fled north, he managed to secure an important relic to take with him. A suit of armor that is seen by many as a piece of Heathmoor's history and a reminder of dark days now past.”

“The armor of Apollyon, the Wolf of War,” Erik finished with a slap to his knee, unable to contain his glee, “The armor of the the Harbinger herself. How would that look sitting in my hall, eh? Or better yet, mounted upon the prow of my ship? Warriors from all over Heathmoor will shit themselves when they see her dark face sailing in to seal their doom.”

“A fucking lie,” Herleif said, crossing his arms as he scowled at Erik, “Everyone knows that Apollyon's body was lost after the battle at the Shard, taken away by what remained of her supporters. Some say she isn't even dead, that one day she will rise again to plunge the world back into eternal war. If you believe the stories, that is.”

Priscilla shook her head. “Blackstone propaganda, spread about through whispers in the hopes of reclaiming past glories. The remnants of that legion have been saying such things for years, but she has yet to show up and make good on such promises. Wouldn't mind seeing her try though. Even if she was still alive she would be what, about eighty now? Oh how the world would tremble with the coming of the Old Hag of War.”

“Do not make light of Apollyon's legacy, Priscilla,” warned Judith, “She is a lesson of what we should not let ourselves become as Knights. You need only look at our current situation to see how failure to heed such lessons can lead to a terrible outcome. Which is why her armor is coveted by so many. It is as much a symbol to those who would see their boots pressed down upon the necks of others as well to those that wish to keep history from repeating. It will do no good in the hands of the cultists, I promise you that.”

As if it would do anything better in the hands of Vikings, Priscilla thought. 

“Lot of good it's done anyone,” spat Gunnar, surprisingly sharing the Peacekeeper's opinion, “How long did the peace between Stigandr, the Daimyo and the old Lord-Warden last anyway? A year? Two at most? Perhaps the Wolf of War was right. Maybe we should all just kill each other until there's nothing left. Ragnarok will come and then finally the world will start a new.”

“What hope does peace have when savages like you seek only to tear down everything around them?” Judith growled.

“Enough. We are not here to talk about the philosophy of war, but of war itself,” said Erik before tensions could rise any more. “Our purpose has been made clear. We shall sail into northern Ashfeld under the guidance of our welcomed guests, and with their aid carve a path to the mountain of fire where we will lay siege to the Walled City and lay claim to the vault inside. You Knights will have your vengeance upon those who have wronged you, and we will have our bounty,” He turned to Herleif then and fixed the Warlord with a hard stare, “What say you, Herleif? All has been revealed now. Do you wish to join us on this perilous venture, or will you return to your hall to grow fat and soft with the pigs?”

Priscilla watched the two Warlords carefully from within her hooded helmet. From what she could tell there was definitely some friction between the two Jarls, and Herleif looked grimly back at Erik as he thought. Perhaps there was something that he held against the Golden Jarl? Could it be that he might decline the offer because of some more personal grievance rather then the idea of helping Knights? She knew that feuds between Vikings could run deep and for a very long time, but she had to give hope that the reward of treasure beyond imagine was enough to put an end to any issue the two men might have. 

She needed this raid to get under way before the Divine Pyre grew any more powerful in their stronghold. The enemy was surely hard at work preparing to carry their word beyond their established borders, and from what she knew they would do it with a fiery power the world had never seen before. A powerful and terrible weapon that had yet to come into play. Time was not on their side.

“We don't need him,” she said quickly, catching the attention of both Jarls quicker than a bear trap snapping on some poor fool's leg. Their collective stare was icy cold, but she weathered it without fear in order to see her plan through. “Two armies will be enough to storm the stronghold. The fighting will be fierce, but we will manage. The Divine Pyre is not as strong as they think.”

Judith turned to look at her as if she was crazy, but it was Herleif's scowled that really interested Priscilla. “If you'll do fine with two, then you'll do even better with three,” he growled, “I will cast my strength in with the lot of you, and come away with a nice hoard of treasure for my trouble. My sword and shield are with you, Erik.”

Erik jumped up from his seat and grinned. “I am pleased to hear it, my friend!” he exclaimed. The two Jarls embraced each other then, solidifying their agreement before all present with their bond. “Make what preparations you need while we're here, but we will leave soon. No later then the day after tomorrow, to be sure.”

“We are ready to sail at your command, and eager to do so. Isn't that right, brother?” Herleif smiled.

“For Valhalla and honor! My axe already thirsts for the fight!” Gunnar boasted, coming and slipping his big arms around the necks of Erik and Herleif both. The three of them all laughed and gave each other proud slaps on their backs, a merry little group eager for the rush and thrill of battle. The fact that they celebrated the prospect of war upon Ashfeld soil among a group of disgruntled Knights seemed not to bother them in the least, at least not until Judith stepped forward and interrupted their moment.

“I thank you, Jarl Herleif,” said the Warden, offering out her hand to the Warlord, “I do not accept your help lightly, but on behalf of all here I am grateful. Truly.”

Herleif glanced down at Judith's hand as if he wasn't sure it wasn't poison to touch, but eventually relaxed and slapped his hand into hers, gripping it tightly. “Welcome to the winning side, heathen,” he smiled as he shook the Warden's hand.

Priscilla lowered her head and let out a sigh. Everything was falling to order now. Soon she'd be sailing on a Viking longship back to Ashfeld and the real work would begin. She would be glad when this was all over and she could go back to more simple duties gathering intelligence and slipping through shadows. Twisting Jarls and renegade Knights to do her bidding was stressful work.

Having no further information to give the Vikings, Priscilla stepped back and away, retreating back through the crowd of Knights. She slipped past the Conqueror named Coal on the way back to her seat, and as she walked by she took a slip of parchment from her belt and slipped it into his hand. “Our orders,”she whispered, and moved on without looking back. Coal said nothing, simply squeezing the parchment she had given him in his hand and out of sight.

Taking her seat again in the dark corner of the cave, Priscilla slipped out her dagger from its sheath and once again began to twirl it between her nimble fingers. For now her job was done, so she might as well find a way to pass the time until she could finally look upon the open sky once again.


	7. Welcome to Ashfeld

Over a hundred ships went out from the the bay of the Hallowed Bastion, their sails dotting the horizon as far as the eye could see. Upon those ships flew a myriad of flags from dozens of different villages from the three clans, all of whom had all answered the call for battle. It was a war host unlike any other, not seen since the days of the Great Raid of the Warborn clans.

For many it would be a chance to claim honor and glory for the ages, and glimmering riches beyond count. For others it would see them ushered to the halls of Valhalla, where they would drink and fight until the Gjallahorn sounded and the Fenrir wolf swallowed the sun. And for the renegade Knights who now sailed under Viking flags, this was more then just a quest for gold and glory, but one for retribution and justice. 

All together it was a force assembled for one purpose only. To sack the Walled City fall and see the Divine Pyre brought to it's knees.

A strong north wind carried the longships south, bringing them swiftly to mouth of the great river that opened into the ocean between the contested territories of the Ice Coast and Sow Mesa. As the lands of Ashfeld appeared on the horizon the Vikings prepared to mark the beginning of their raid with battle and blood, but surprisingly there was no sign of resistance to be found anywhere along the open coast. Not a single opposing ship patrolled along the shore, and while there were fortifications built along the mouth of the river they did not seemed to be occupied by any Knights standing guard.

The path into Ashfeld was open it seemed, and the eager Vikings gladly sailed on into the river without pause.

Lowering the sails, the ships extended their oars to navigate the gently rolling waters, easing their way down the wide river and deeper into enemy territory. All was eerily quiet. Those who had been expecting to fight tooth and nail through countless enemies soon found themselves disappointed, as there was no sign of the Divine Pyre for miles. But the evidence of their cruelty against those that had opposed them was clear like a scar upon the land. Ruined villages, burned churches, and motionless carts abandoned along riverside roads as refugees hopelessly tried to escape their encroaching tormentors.

Looking over to the northern shore, Herleif frowned as he surveyed yet another abandoned village as his ship passed by. There was not much of the village left to see really, a few black charred buildings and a stone husk of what had been a church, much like the others he had seen since entering the mouth of the river. Whatever had happened here, it was clear that the villagers had been helpless to stop it. 

“Odd, isn't it?” Said Gunnar as he stepped up next to Herleif and gazed out over the destruction.

“What's odd?” Herleif asked, not taking his eyes away from the shore.

“Finding a place like this already burned and pillaged. Normally something like this would be because of us.”

Herleif glanced sideways at his brother. “Are you admiring their work?”

“No.” Gunnar said with a shake of his head, “Just find it strange is all. Leaving death behind you is one thing. Coming upon it like this is just downright unsettling.” 

Looking back to the shoreline, Herleif watched as the village square came into view. His eyes widened, learning then that the village had not been abandoned as he had first thought. In fact the village inhabitants all seemed to be present there in the square. Or at least he believed what he saw to be the village's inhabitants. It was hard to tell with all of their burned bodies piled together in a heap of corpses. 

“Yes. Pretty damn unsettling.” Herleif growled, fists clenching as his anger grew. 

“Poor bastards,” Gunnar sighed, “Life of a peasant isn't easy, sure, but they'd have fared better by our hands then that. Just taken their stuff, burned a few buildings and be done with it. Well, with the exception of Ivar maybe. Still, guess we owe these volcano fuckers our thanks for leaving the path open for us. Probably already cowering behind their city wall, just waiting for us to come knocking.”

Herleif didn't answer. He wasn't in the mood for jokes. Whatever bad blood might exist between Valkenheim and Ashfeld didn't make this kind of massacre any easier to witness. In a raid you killed those who stood against you, then put a bit of fear into those left so you could take what you wanted without any trouble. Slaughter such as this, done in the name of some ridiculous mountain, seemed down right godless.

The pile of burned bodies passed out of view, forgotten by all, including it seemed the village's own God. But Herleif's blood was still hot. Whoever these Divine Pyre cultists were, he would gladly see them put to the sword and axe. This world had no place for such terrible zealots and murderers. 

The Viking's first chance to thank the cultists for leaving the river open to them did not come until late into the day, as the head of the fleet sailed further into the territories of the Underlands and the Fold. Sitting upon the southern shore of the river was a wooden palisade flying purple banners stitched with the image of a golden eagle wreathed in flame. It was the first sign of the Divine Pyre actively defending a fort that they had seen. They were dug in well upon the riverbank, but it was clear from the way that the purple and gold clad Knights scurried about that they had not been expecting to face such a large invading force. 

Horns sounded clear in the air and called for the rise to battle, and all at once a cheer went up from the Viking ships for the chance to finally let their blades fly. At the head of the great fleet, both Herleif and Ivar sailed their flagships ahead to deal with the palisade and mark the true beginning of the raid and shed first blood. Within the riverside fortifications Pyre archers readied themselves to rain death upon their enemy from above, and armor clad soldiers manned the battlements to repress any who would try to scale the walls.

Upon the churning river water, the sound of drums beat out the rhythm of the oars as Vikings rowed as hard as they could for their first chance of spilling Ashfeld blood. 

“Row! Row! Row!”

Ivar the Red stood at the prow of his dragon ship, hooked sword and skull painted shield in hand. His gaze was turned towards the shore, but then he looked towards Herleif's ship with a wicked grin. “Save your strength and rest easy, Herleif! First blood will belong to the Headhunters this day!” He laughed as the swinging oars brought his ship ahead.

Herleif cursed under his breath. It was clear that Ivar would reach the shore first, soon followed by even more of his own clan's ships. The Knights had a good position, but it was clear that they were hopelessly outnumbered. What ships could be seen from the palisades walls were only a small glimpse of what followed further behind up river. Even as the first arrows began to fall upon raised shields, the river fort was already doomed. Ivar would overwhelm the Knights with his own warriors, and so Herleif gave the order for his ships to sail on.

Ivar's ship soon reached the shore, and warriors spilled out like a swarm of wasps from their nest to attack the river fort. Arrows rained down on them from above, striking shields and Vikings alike. Ivar's archers fired back from passing ships, providing the cover their fellow warriors needed to approach the palisade walls with ropes and hooks. More of Ivar's ships came to the shore to provide support, and soon the fort was surrounded. Vikings were scaling the walls with ropes like insects upon a carcass, making it up to the ramparts and bringing steel to bear against the opposing Pyre Knights. There was no chance of escape for the Pyre Knights now.

Herleif sailed on, leading the fleet further down river towards whatever came next. The roar of battle could be heard clearly for miles beyond the fort's position. Not long after the attack began, smoke could be see rising above the trees, marking the inevitable end to the Pyre's resistance. 

“What a bunch of greedy bastards!” Ragnar roared, glaring up at the rising smoke before he spit into the river. He balled his fist and pummeled it against the ship's railing. “Taking all the fun for themselves! Don't they know they're supposed to share?”

“Quit your bitching and get back to rowing! I swear, mother wasted her time birthing you. She should have just kept her legs squeezed shut after me,” Ragna growled from her bench as she worked her oar in the water, “Look where we are, fool. There will be more fighting to come, you can be sure of that.”

Herleif stood at the back of his ship with Skuld, bent over a makeshift table and looking over a map to chart their course along the river. The sun was getting low in the sky, making him wary of pressing on further. There was no telling what kind of defending force they might come upon in the night, but it was no easy thing to just bring a fleet such as this to a halt upon the water. Tracing his finger along the map, he followed the line of the river to the lake where it ended. “Eitrivatnen,” He said in a low voice, tapping his finger against the name written on the map, “We will be there soon. A few days at most, depending on how well the river is guarded.”

Skuld said nothing as she looked at the map, leaning against her spear. She was useless in a conversation, but Herleif found her to be an excellent listener at the very least and he found that kind of stoicism to be a virtue in its own way. 

He turned and looked at the Shaman who was curled up among some of the cargo at the ship's stern. “What do you think, Helge? What kind of fate might we find upon that accursed lake?”

Helge slid down from her seat like a spider gliding across it's web. Looking over the map, her eyes narrowing as they settled on the name of the lake. “Jafnhar's Bane,” she said softly, reaching into a pouch on her belt and drawing something out, cupping it between her hands as she held them over the map. Closing her eyes, she muttered strange words under her breath, shaking her hands before she threw them open over the table. Rune carved finger bones flew through the air and clattered over the map, landing in a chaotic jumble. Helge waved a hand over them, taking in the formation in which they had landed. It just looked like an unorganized mess to Herleif, but then he wasn't the one twitching as voices whispered in his ear. 

Suddenly Helge's gaze flicked up to the sky, which was colored red like blood by the setting sun. “Blood marks the dying day. Darkness falls upon us all, but will not last. The voices whisper. A fire rises, a fire on the lake, to cast off the darkness and leave the mountain open. Jafnar's Bane shall be avenged. Sail on. Sail on!”

Herleif blew air into his cheeks. “That doesn't sound altogether terrible, I suppose.”

Helge straightened up and scowled. “Don't mock the voices and the bones. If you don't like what they have to say then you should not ask in the first place.”

“I mean no disrespect to... whoever these voices might be. We shall sail on, as they say.” He looked down the length of the boat to where it disappeared behind an approaching bend. “What better time to trust the gods than when in the land of the enemy.”

Helge let out a short laugh as she picked up her finger bones and stored them away. “Yes, trust in the gods, but remember what it is that I have said. Three foes upon the mountain, Herleif. Are you prepared?” She laughed again, then turned and crawled back into her spot as the sun slipped away behind the trees.

Over the course of the next three days, the fleet sailed past a dozen more burned villages. Some were completely abandoned, while others were littered with the charred remains of their inhabitants. Only on a few occasions did they see any set of buildings with actual living people present about them. 

From what Herleif could see there were few men among them, mostly just women, children and the old. They were dirty, clothed in rags and hiding within the charred rubble of their homes, clearly just struggling to survive. Children cried as they clung to their mother's skirts, and many of the adults simply sat around hopeless, as if they wished themselves to join the dead rather then remain among the living. Not even the sight of a Viking fleet seemed to send them into a panic, they were so broken.

At one such village, an old woman even had the nerve to approach the shore and call out to them, shaking her bony fists in the air as the ships passed by. “You are too late! Come and feast upon naught but ash and the dead, you wicked dogs!” she cried, her old voice shaking between something of a cackling laugh and a chilling wail, “We have no more to give! What more can the devils of the north do to us? Hell already resides here!”

Seeing this, Herleif did not have the heart to raise arms against these poor people, and gave the order to sail on. Small villages like this were not the prize they had come for, and from the look of things it seemed that the Divine Pyre had already taken or burned anything of any value. These people had suffered enough.

Things began to change the further the ships sailed down river. For as much land as this rebel legion seemed to own, they much preferred to keep their forces close to their precious volcano, leading to more and more resistance from the Divine Pyre as the fleet sailed on. Three more times they came upon riverfront fortifications, each with more Pyre Knights standing guard then the last as word of the invading fleet spread. With a fleet this size it would have been impossible to go undetected for very long.

Herleif and his warriors were the ones to lead the attacks on the first two forts, and they learned just how hard these fanatics could fight to hold onto the land that they had taken. With each attack every Pyre Knight fought to the very end, refusing to surrender as they shouted out cries of death and retribution in the name of their holy volcano. 

The Vikings made sure that their zealous voices were quickly snuffed out. They swarmed over the Knights like locusts devouring a field of wheat. No matter how passionately the warriors of the Divine Pyre invoked the name of Mount Ignis for salvation, none ever came. Odin however was glad to gift Herleif with two quick and decisive victories to add to his saga.

At each fort they recovered small crates or wagons of the treasure that had been taken from the citizens of the surrounding territories. It wasn't much, a few sacks of coins, silver dining sets or goblets and a handfuls of gems, but it was enough to show the Vikings that the tales of the Divine Pyre hording wealth were true. It would all be waiting for them within the vault of the Walled City, along with the greater prize of Apollyon's armor. All they had to do was cut down every Knight that stood in their way to claim it.

It was at the third and largest fort that the fighting was the fiercest yet, with the Divine Pyre giving the greatest show of strength since the Vikings arrival in Ashfeld. Herleif was glad for the challenge, and the chance to wet his sword with more cultist blood. 

Ordering his ships brought ashore further up the river from the fort, he led his warriors around to surround the Knights from the land while Ivar led his ships in assault from the river itself. While Ivar kept the Knights distracted, Herleif's warriors moved into position, felling a good sized tree along the way to fashion into a battering ram. Though the fort was well defended, numbers were not on the Divine Pyre's side. As Herleif laid siege to the gate, reinforcements from Erik's ships came ashore to give aid to him and Ivar both. The gate did not hold out for long, and as it broke open Herleif was there to lead the charge with sword and shield raised and a horde of howling warriors at his back.

The Divine Pyre had offered no mercy to those villages they had torn through and burned, and so Herleif offered no mercy in return. As their forces clashed in the fort's courtyard, pitched fighting soon gave way to bloody slaughter.

Ivar led his warriors over the walls, and soon the fort was over run with Vikings howling for blood. The battle was over then, even if the Pyre Knights failed to realize it They fought with all the fire of their misplaced faith, but there was no hope for them in the end. Pinned between the two invading forces, each Knight cut down by Viking blades in a haze of red fury. None were spared. Gunnar took the head of the fort commander himself, a Lawbringer with black armor and a golden cape. A crowd had even formed around the two as Gunnar challenged the Pyre Lawbringer to a duel, striking at the armored man until he fell to his knees. A great swing of Gunnar's axe parted the commander's head from his shoulders, and in the end it was placed it on a pike at the fort's courtyard once the fighting had died down. A tribute to the gods for granting them such an overwhelming victory.

As the sun set on the day, Erik's golden eagle banner was hoisted into the air above the fort, with Ivar's and Herleif's banners flying beneath. The fleet would remain here for the night, and lay plans for the next step in the raid. Soon they would reach Eitrivatnen, and the harbor at the lakes edge that guarded the path to Mount Ignis.

“Damn fine job, my friends. Damn fine,” Erik smiled as he finally walked through the open gates of the fort. The bodies of three Pyre Knights had been strung up and were hanging above the gate as he entered, but he paid them no more mind than he did the crying crows circling in the sky above. The Golden Jarl looked pleased with himself as he surveyed the corpses being gathered for burning outside the fort's walls, as if their deaths were his to claim alone. He and his housecarls stood out among those warriors who had taken the fort, their golden armor and shining weapons clean and clear of blood. 

He stopped by a cart laden with treasure found within the forts hall, ready to be wheeled out to the river and loaded up onto the boats. Even as the bodies of dead Vikings were being carried past him, brave warriors cut down in the heat of battle, Erik's attention was captured completely by the glint of gold shining in the light of lit torches. Opening a small chest, he dipped his hand into a horde of gold and silver coins, he let the precious metals slip through his fingers as if their touch alone could give him any real joy in this world.

Ivar and Herleif stood together cleaning their weapons as Erik approached, splattered in red gore in contrast to their fellow Warlord who glimmered like a light in the dark. “Fine as fuck, Erik. Fine to see that you didn't get any blood on all that shiny gold you wear,” Ivar said, eyeing the Golden Jarl wearily. He could do so with both eyes now since the swelling of his face had gone down. 

For once Herleif agreed with Ivar, though he preferred to think of it as just seeing sense then actually sharing the same sentiment. They might be sworn blood brothers now, but to him it was only a symbolic gesture for the benefit of this raid rather then anything meaningful. Erik just seemed to shrug off Ivar's remark, his eyes still lingering on the captured treasure before he waved a hand back to the Knights who followed him. “I was just keeping an eye on our dear guests. Wouldn't want them getting lonely while we slaughtered their kin. Besides, it looked like you two had things well handled.”

Herleif watched as the Lion Flame Knights all shuffled into the fort, looking about them at the carnage of Divine Pyre laid bare. Dozens of grim eyes stared back at them as bloodied Vikings cleaned their weapons, dressed their wounds or said goodbye to dear friends cut down during the battle. They watched these so called allied Knights with simmering distrust, holding back their anger like a pack of agitated wolves.

Lady Judith walked closer to one of the piles of bodies made up of Pyre knights. Looking down, she put her boot to the helmet of some dead Warden laying on his back and staring up towards the sky. Slowly, she pushed with her foot until his face was turned away from her and he rolled over to lay face down in the mud. “These fools are no kin of mine,” she said grimly.

“No one gives a shit what you think, wench,” Ivar replied instantly, barely giving Judith a glance before turning back to Erik, “So what happens next, eh? We gonna stand around all night flapping our lips about nothing, or are we gonna discuss where to hit these fire fuckers where it really hurts?”

That brought about a murmur of agreement from the surrounding warriors, some of whom Herleif noticed where his own. Ragnar, Ragna and Gunnar all shook their heads in approval of Ivar's words. Even Skuld was pacing around like an angry mountain cat, still eager for another fight.

“Hold your tongue, you hateful bastard,” groaned Erik, “Surely this place must have a war chamber, or a hall to hold council. Let us go there and have cups of mead and food. Then we will discuss what our plans for tomorrow might be.”

Many of the common warriors present grumbled and hung their heads in disappointment, as they would surely not be brought along to the meeting, and would not be informed of any plans until much later. Herleif would make sure to that Gunnar was present though, and turned to fetch him as the group began to drift further into the newly claimed fort.

As he did, he stopped and addressed Skuld on the matter of her mission. “Is it done?” he asked, glancing down at the seax on her belt. The Valkyrie pulled the knife from its sheath, revealing the shiny blade, clean and unblooded. Herleif sighed and gave her a small nod, leaving things at that. There was still much more fighting to come, and if the gods were willing Skuld would find a warrior worthy enough to send Audhilda's father through the gates of Valhalla. 

Soon the conquered fort was alive and thriving again as the Vikings made it their own. A small portion of the armies warriors would be left at the fort to guard the river, meaning that any damage done during the attack would have to be repaired and refortified. The threat of the Divine Pyre lay to the east at the foot of Mount Ignis, but there were still the remaining legions of Ashfeld to guard against from the south. It was important to keep the river defended and clear for their return to Valkenheim.

Fires were lit, songs of victory and farewell were sung, and the hammering of weapons being repaired echoed into the air as the Jarls and a few Knights retreated into the fort's main hall to discuss plans of the coming battle. The group gathered around a large table in what had been a commander's hall, and horns of mead were poured for those present. Erik raised a toast to victory, only to be interrupted by his son Magnus storming into the hall followed closely by Old Wolf.

“Father!” Magnus exclaimed, his bright smile shining through a beard caked in dark blood. He held up his twin axes, showing off the gore that clung to the blades. “Look, my axes run red with Ashfeld blood! I slew many great warriors today in your name.”

“That's my boy! Now you are truly one of the Odin's chosen. A true Berserker! Ah- not to close,” Erik said, holding out his hand to keep Magnus from approaching and embracing him while in such a dirty state. 

Magnus came up short from wrapping his blood covered arms around his father, and Erik looked over his golden ornaments to make sure they all remained clean. For a brief moment it seemed that the young Berserker didn't know what to say, but then quickly came up with something to keep his spirits up as he turned and scowled angrily at Old Wolf beside him. “I might have slain many more, father, if this one hadn't kept me on such a short leash. As if he had nothing better to do then steal my kills from me.”

Old Wolf simply rolled his eyes and let out a disgruntled sigh. “Your father gave clear instruction to keep a close eye on the young warrior. No one was to touch you, an I made damn sure o'that. I do my job well, laddie, as my Jarl commands.” The old Highlander's voice was like rolling thunder, marred by that strange accent that forever marked him as an outsider. 

“As well you should,” Erik replied, pointing a stern finger at the Highlander, then turned and gave a weary looked at his gore covered son. “Go and clean yourself up, then come back and join us. We prepare for tomorrow's battle.” 

Magnus frowned, but did as his father commanded and left with Old Wolf to clean the blood from their armor and weapons. Their bickering over who had the most kills during the battle could be heard long after they were out of sight down the hall.

Ivar didn't bother to wait for Erik to continue with his toast before he downed his horn of mead and threw it down empty on the table. “Right then, to fucking business.” With a snap of his fingers a map was brought forward of northern Ashfeld which depicted the river that they sailed upon. Ivar leaned over the map and tapped his finger on the forts location at the southern corner of the territory called The Fold. “We are here. Its only a few miles down river until we reach Lake Eitrivatnen,” his finger slid down the line of the river to where it opened up into a blue oval on the map, “Now we all know what happened there years ago with Jarl Jafnhar's fucking disastrous raid on the harbor, and I'm sure there are a few here with weaker bones then the rest of us that would rather give the place a wide berth. Fact is though the harbor at Eitrivatnen is the best place to stage an advance on the volcano and the Walled City. It will take too long to march around the lake, so this is where we need to hit these tin fuckers and we need to hit them hard.” He slammed his fist down on the map with a hard thump to make his point clear.

Erik ran his fingers through the end of his blonde beard, shaking his head. “It will be no easy task taking the harbor. Jarl Jafnhar was a powerful and successful warrior, yet his defeat is remembered as one of the worst in our people's history. We must not allow ourselves to suffer the same fate when we arrive upon the lake's eastern shore.”

“Jafnhar was a fucking Highlander fool that had no business being a Jarl,” Ivar retorted as he stood up from the table, “No offense to your guard, Erik, but outsiders should remember their place and keep to the oaths they have sworn.” His dark eyes slid over to Judith and Priscilla as he spoke, the only two Knights present at the table. They stared back, backs stiff and shoulders straight, but what disgruntled emotions they might wear upon their faces were hidden behind their metal helmets.

Herleif stepped forward, waving one hand in the air cautiously to try and ease the growing tension. “I somehow doubt that Jafnhar's defeat was due to out lander heritage. We all know who is truly to blame for the harbor's dark reputation.” He turned and looked at the Warden and Peacekeeper standing next to him, taking a hesitant breath before speaking. “Vortiger. Does the dark warrior still guard the lake's shores at the harbor?” 

Everyone in the room seemed to tense at the mention of the infamous Black Prior that had single handily defended Eitrivatnen from both invading Viking and Samurai forces. Even his fellow Knights had not been safe from his vicious blade and shield. The bloody carnage that the warrior had left behind had become legend, revealing to the world that the order of the Black Priors was not as dead and forgotten as had once been believed. 

“No,” answered Judith, giving the room a chance to collectively let out a sigh of relief, “Funny thing about actively bringing darkness and death to others is that in the end it usually claiming you instead. Vortiger was killed a year or so back, cut down fighting Samurai encroaching from the east. I'm not really sure of the details, but I heard the Samurai made it last for what he had done to them at the battle of Westhold. There were few who mourned his passing, and many who saw it as a blessing, even among the legions.”

Priscilla came forward and rested both hands on the table as she addressed the Jarls. “Just because Vortiger is dead though doesn't mean that the Black Priors are gone from Eitrivatnen. Another of their order now holds command over the harbor. A woman by the name of Erzebet. Like so many other Knights she was seduced by the doctrine of the Divine Pyre, but her methods are no less bloody then that of her predecessor. It was reported that when she purged the harbor of non-believers, she took their heads and hung them above doors of the citizens who remained there to remind them never to falter in their faith to the volcano.”

“Then I'll take her head in turn. Best way to deal with a crazy witch like that. And don't any of you other fuckers think about stealing that chance from me,” Ivar said casually, earning him a soft chuckle from a few of the Vikings around the table, though Judith and Priscilla remained silent.

“What of the harbor defenses? Has much changed since Jarl Jafnhar's raid?” asked Gunnar who stood next to Herleif.

Judith shook her head, the one wing of her eagle ornament shaking as if the wounded bird was trying to fly away. “Not much. There are three separate army barracks spread out along the harbor's edge. One on either end, and the last in the center. These barracks act as guard posts along the harbors walls into the city proper. If the harbor is garrisoned well they should be able to mobilize quickly, but with a fleet as large as yours it shouldn't be much of a problem to cover that distance and pin them in.”

“As long as we move swiftly and without restraint we should be able to overwhelm them before they can get many of their own ships out to meet us on the water,” Priscilla added. 

Erik grinned and nodded approvingly. “Mm, hit them hard and hit them fast. Good old fashioned Viking tactics.” He leaned over the map and pointed to three spots on the lake. “Herleif you take the southern barracks, and Ivar you the north. I will sail my ships up the center, and push for the citadel at the center of the city until you can circle in and join me. We'll pin the enemy in and slaughter them like sheep.”

Ivar nodded in agreement. “You pin them down and Herleif and I will do the slaughtering for you. Or maybe we'll just sic that crazy boy of yours on them, watch as he hacks them all into bits. No reason to get that pretty gold all bloody when there's no need.”

Erik gave Ivar a dirty look from beneath the face plate of his helmet. “Don't you worry, Ivar. I'll show these bastards just what happens once my sword is drawn, make no mistake.”

Again Herleif felt the need to jump in and change the subject from fighting among themselves to focusing on the coming fight with the Divine Pyre. “How many ships might they be able to sail out to against us? Should we expect much resistance upon the lake itself?” he asked the Knights.

Judith turned to look at Priscilla, expecting the Peacekeeper to talk numbers and tactics as she usually did. Priscilla remained silent however, her face turned downward towards the map as if ignoring the question entirely. Judith looked back to Herleif and shrugged. “Last I knew the Eitrivatnen fleet had around twenty triremes ready to sail in defense of the harbor. Who knows if that has changed though, either with the Pyre building more or destroying what they had during their take over.”

Herleif nodded in understanding, but looked around Judith to eye the silent Priscilla. Twenty ships seemed hardly anything to worry about against a fleet of their size, so why had the Peacekeeper mentioned that they needed to overwhelm the harbor before the Divine Pyre could put their ships to sail? Before he could ask though, Erik interrupted with further plans for the assault.

“Lady Judith, you and your warriors will sail with me to the center barracks,” Erik began, “Now is the time to show those under the Pyre's boot heel that not all Knights submit to the volcano's rule. With any luck it should cause some problems for the enemy's hold on the territory, or at least at the harbor itself until we take it.”

“Cause problems for us, more like,” Ivar interjected, “People see a few Knights fighting by our side and they might join with the crazy fire fuckers all the more. Hard not to see how the common people might think of this lot as anything more then a bunch of filthy fucking traitors. The Pyre will use them as a reason to rally the people to their side, make no mistake.”

Judith slammed her gauntlet down on the table and leaned in towards Ivar, hissing through her helmet. “How many times do I have to tell you, heathen? We are not the traitors here! I would have never dreamed of raising my blade against a fellow Knight, not before these cultists burned everything I hold dear!”

“Aye, but you still dream of putting a blade to my throat, is that it?” Ivar asked, remaining as calm as ever against Judith's fiery temper, “That's fine by me, just so long as we have a fucking understanding. No need to start thinking we're friends or kin just because we're all killing the same bunch of bastards.”

“Might I offer up an alternative?” Priscilla interrupted, speaking again at last. “The warehouses and markets of the harbor can be a bit of a maze to navigate, especially with it being occupied by an enemy force. They have most likely set up barricades, blocked off the wider streets and set up a few traps. I suggest each attacking group take a contingent of Knights with them to help lead the way to the meeting point at the city's center. That way we might limit our exposure while helping sow dissent among the citizens where we can.”

“So be it, but just make sure to keep any unruly citizens out of our way,” Erik said, “I won't have any of my warriors stabbed in the back with a pitchfork by some fucking peasant. Judith will still go with me with those Knights she chooses to bring along. Decide among yourselves how to divide up the rest between Herleif and Ivar's ships.”

“I will go with Herleif, and select a few of our number to accompany me. The rest will go with Ivar,” Priscilla said, looking up at Judith for approval. The Warden nodded in agreement, then Priscilla glanced over at Herleif. “As long as that is alright with you of course, Jarl Bjornson?”

Herleif gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. “Fine, so long as you don't get us lost.”

Gunnar crossed his arms over his broad chest and gave a disgruntled laugh, eyeing the smaller Peacekeeper from under his horned helmet. “Try not to get in anyone's way while you're at it. Just keep those little needles of yours sheathed and do as you're told. Leave the fighting to the real warriors.”

Priscilla didn't so much as flinch under Gunnar's gaze. “So long as you're able to keep up and don't get lost, then we won't have a problem. Wouldn't want you getting lost and hurt on your first trip to the market.” she said with a hint of a smile in her voice.

Gunnar scowled at her, not entirely sure if her comment was some sort of threat or some sort of jest made at his expense. Regardless, Erik interjected himself into the conversation before Gunnar could retort. “Very well. We all have our targets. However many ships they have won't matter against our numbers. We'll deal with any that sail out against us, and then overwhelm the Pyre Knights at each landing zone. Once we have those secure we can push into the city and take the citadel, crushing all in our path.”

“What about Erzebet? She's bound to be lurking around somewhere within the harbor's defenses,” said Herleif, “The Black Priors were zealots even before all this volcano madness. She will fight until the bitter end, and she will bid the warriors under her command to do the same.”

“So be it. The end will be the same for all of them.” Erik said with grim satisfaction, “Make no mistake my friends, the gods are watching us. These fights along the river have been tough, but they will be nothing compared to what is still to come. I would have us show the gods nothing less then the complete and utter defeat of our enemies in the coming days,” Pressing his hands onto the table, he leaned in close and gave each person surrounding him a heavy stare. “And as for this Erzebet. Find her. Kill her. Let it be known that any warrior who brings me her head will earn their due reward from the Walled City's treasury.”

Those standing around the table all nodded in understanding, including Judith and Priscilla who seemed just as eager as the rest to see this Black Prior put to the sword. They were in this fight completely now, not just for treasure and glory, but for their homes and the freedom of their countrymen as well. For the disgruntled Knights of the Lion Flame Legion there was no path back up the river towards home, but only the path that led to victory or death.

“Right then,” Erik continued, “Herleif, Ivar, see to your men. Make sure they are prepared and that they know what to do. Ships, weapons, arrows and fire-flasks. I want them all ready to go as soon as possible. Judith, see to it that your Knights know which ships they will be sailing with, and find a way to make sure you stand out among the fighting. You might wear different colors then the Divine Pyre, but once the killing starts most Vikings won't stop to check who's side the Knight they're hacking at is on.” With a wave of his hand Erik dismissed those present to go and prepare for the coming attack. “We sail for Eitrivatnen the day after tomorrow. I expect everyone to be ready by then.”

Again all present nodded in agreement, and when they parted ways not a word was said between them in aggravation or friendship. Too many things to do for them to care about others, too many preparations to make. Herleif walked with his brother to go and prepare his ships and warriors, while Ivar and Erik went to do the same. Judith and Priscilla walked behind, then made themselves scarce to go and find where the remaining Lion Flame Legion was camped for the night.

Not long after all had left, Magnus and Old Wolf walked into the empty officer's hall, freshly clean and armor glinting. “My friends, we have returned! What plans have we for bringing more death and pain upon these puny volcano Knights?” Magnus exclaimed with a wide grin as he entered the hall. His face quickly fell though as he found everyone already gone, battle map taken and not even a single cup of mead left waiting for either of them. Looking around, Magnus threw his hands into the air and let them drop limply at his sides. “Where'd everyone go?”

Old Wolf just shook his head as he stepped up next to the Jarl's son, clapping his hand on the young man's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Away laddie. Meetings over, looks like. They've all gone away.”

Magnus looked at the Highlander in disbelief then back at the empty table. His mouth opened and closed for a moment before he could finally speak. “But what about the plans? The battle for the harbor? They can't have made them all without me!”

Old Wolf chuckled, squeezing the Berserker's shoulder again. “Now that's where you'd be wrong, laddie. See, no one really ever needs a prince until the old Jarl has gone an kicked the bucket, so for now I'm afraid your presence at this meeting ain't worth two handfuls of steaming sheep shite, as it were,” he smiled brightly then, slapping his other hand on Magnus' chest, “But hey, look on the bright side! That just leaves more time for drinking! No need to worry about all that political and planning shite. An I tell ya laddie, nothing helps heal a hurt soul better then me own Nan's secret brew. Passed down through the family line for generations it is, a secret I plan on taking to me own grave. Come on, I have a flask of it in me pack that we can share. Burn the little whiskers right off your lips, it will, but it will warm you up good and right.” 

Magnus gave one last longing look towards the empty table before he was finally directed out of the hall by the old Highlander. “Yeah, alright,” he said quietly, and then after a moment spoke up, “Hey, Old Wolf?”

“Aye?”

“Do you think the gods are pleased with how many Knights I killed today?”

Old Wolf grinned, “Aye, laddie, the gods are proud of ya alright. We all are.”

Priscilla gave her orders to those that would join her alongside Herleif's warriors. She made sure that her Knights knew to be ready by the following evening, and to rip off a piece of their tabards or capes to wear as scarfs around their neck. Hopefully the red and white colors would be enough to set them apart among the purples and golds of the Pyre Knights they would be fighting against once they landed in the harbor. 

Once she was sure that everyone knew their duty, and knew to do nothing to aggravate the Vikings they would be sailing with, Priscilla excused herself to a tent that had been set up for her along the fort's walls to get some rest. Walking alone next to the fort's outer wall, it didn't take her skills as a spymaster to tell that someone was following her as she went. 

Ducking into a nearby store room, she drew out her dagger and hid herself behind some crates in the darkness to watch for anyone else that entered. A figure stepped in through the door, tall with broad shoulders and a metal helmet upon their head. Priscilla didn't hesitate, sliding out from her hiding place and sliding the tip of her dagger up under the helmets rim and poked at the soft jugular beneath.

The Conqueror called Coal stiffened, instinctively raising his shield against her strike, but they both knew it would have done nothing now if she really wanted him dead.

“What do you want, Coal?” Priscilla hissed.

Coal turned his head the best he could to look at her while the point of her blade was still against his neck. “Did you read the report from Beaufort?” he asked. His voice was surprisingly soft for such a big man, one with a Conqueror's grim reputation.

Priscilla narrowed her eyes at him from behind her hooded helmet. “Did you follow me just to ask stupid questions, or do you just miss the feeling of a prison shiv against your skin?”

“I followed you to ask if this plan is really such a good idea?” Coal bit back, shield pressing against Priscilla's side with a bit more force, “By the sound of things we could be walking straight into a firestorm. Literally.” 

“We have our orders. Infiltrate the harbor, eliminate the pilgrim and secure his work for Beaufort. Then we go home. Simple, especially with a fucking Viking horde clearing the way for us.”

“Sure, with these odds against the Divine Pyre alone it would be simple, but against this weapon that they're making? We could all be burned alive during this attack!” retorted Coal.

Priscilla gently put her hand on Coal's shield and pushed it away, but kept the point of her dagger just where it was under the rim of his helmet. “The word from Beaufort is that the weapon is still in development. It's not ready yet. Not enough people working on it. Right now the only people the Pyre has is the pilgrim and a couple of brainless grunts doing as they're told. The last report stated that the majority of their ships are still in dry dock waiting to be fitted with ordnance. With any luck there won't even be any ships ready to sail against us.” She changed the angle of the blade in her hand, moving it from a point under the Conqueror's jaw to sliding the sharp edge across his vulnerable neck. “You're not having second thoughts, are you, Coal? Questioning my channels of intelligence? I would very much hate for that to be the case. I don't much like entertaining the thought of having a liability on my mission.”

Coal was silent for a moment, fists clenched tight and shoulders tense as he weighed the options laid out before him. The sharp blade against his neck was definitely a driving factor in his decision making. He swallowed hard, and felt his Adam's apple bump uncomfortably against the dagger's edge. “No,” he said at last, voice soft and low as he relinquished control of his fate to the determined Peacekeeper.

“Good.” Priscilla instantly pulled her dagger away, giving it a quick twirl before sliding it back into it's sheath on her belt. “Glad we could sort that out. Be ready and stick with me at the harbor. Once the fighting starts we will slip away. Herleif and his bear of a brother will be too busy putting out fires to notice we're gone.” 

Stepping towards the door, she paused for a moment and glanced at Coal over her shoulder. “Wait here for ten minutes, then go. We shouldn't be seen alone before the attack.” Then she was gone. 

Coal was left standing alone, his concerns over the coming battle put no less at ease. There was a sharp stinging sensation against his neck where the blade had been, and he could feel something hot rolling down his skin a single drop of blood slowly rolling down his throat in a straight line. He wiped it away, cursing himself for even bothering to try and make Priscilla see reason about their situation. Clearly she was just like the rest of the Knights here, too caught up in what she thought she had to do to not see the collar fixed around her neck directing her every move. He could see it though, and the one around his own neck as well. He'd known it was there ever since they'd locked him up years ago.

Prison was supposed to be a place where the worst of the worst were locked away and left to rot until they were forgotten. Coal had gone to prison for trying to hunt on a noble's land when he had been starving, yet somehow these volcano cultists had been left to run free and spread their madness without punishment. He'd spent years being put to work in forced labor, and then given a weapon and sent to the front line of Ashfeld's wars to lay down his life for those that considered themselves his superior. But he hadn't died like he was meant to. He had fought, and won, proved himself an strong warrior capable of defending those who had cast him away and not shown him an ounce of kindness. He had been made a Conqueror, a title that he had thought meant something at the time. Now here he was being used as a pawn in a desperate scheme against them, most likely one that was doomed to fail in one horrible way or another. It was things like that that made him realize how unfair this crazy world really was.

He took a seat on a crate and started to count the minutes as they ticked by, sighing to himself as he wiped more blood from his neck. “I should have just stayed in prison.”


	8. Fire and Water

The sound of a horn echoed through the air as the first ships of the Viking fleet pulled away from the conquered fort and headed down river. More horns soon joined the first, as warriors raced to their boats to begin the last leg of their voyage to Lake Eitrivatnen. Shields lined the ship's sides, and swords, spears and axes were all stowed away and made ready for the attack as the sailors took up their oars. Only the harbor lay between them and their goal of the fiery Mount Ignis, along with an army of zealous Knights ready to lay down their lives in defense of their precious volcano.

To the fierce warriors of Valkenheim the strength of the Divine Pyre meant nothing. For generations their clans had gone to war against the Knights of Ashfeld, and some of the older veterans had even survived the Great Famine and the War of the Wolf against the Blackstone warlord Apollyon. They knew of the strength that the Knights possessed, and they knew that with the gods on their side that they could break it. Odin, Thor, Freya and Tyr, all of them were watching the Vikings set sail for war now. Those warriors that the gods found worthy would receive their strength and aid in the coming battle.

Herleif stood at the prow of his ship the Salt Boar, breathing in the sweet smell of the wind as it blew off the water, and watched as Ivar's ships got underway ahead of his own. The last of his warriors were just now boarding their ships and soon they would be ready to set sail. The boat was being loaded with weapons, provisions and cargo, everything they would need to attack the harbor and hold it as they pressed on to the volcano afterwards.

He felt jittery, on edge, like he was caught in place right in the path of a coming a storm with no hope of finding shelter. Stretching out his fingers then curling them in tight, he yearned to feel the grip of his sword and the weight of his shield in hand, wielding them both against his enemy in pitched combat. He reminded himself of his virtues as a Warlord and a Jarl. Strength, honor, power and temperance, all things necessary to lead his people into battle and to victory. If the gods were willing he would be there to celebrate with them in the end, or he would feast in the golden hall with his ancestors until the day when Ragnarok was finally at hand. Both were fitting fates to meet, but secretly he hoped it was the former that would be his reward. 

Further down the ship's deck, Gunnar was leading Priscilla and nine other Knights of the Lion Flame Legion up the gangplank and down through the rows of benches where Vikings were taking up their oars. After the attacks against the river forts there were a few benches left empty, the Vikings who had occupied them now feasting in Valhalla with the gods and their ancestors. It was up to the Knights to take up their positions and do their duty to see that the longship made it to the harbor with all speed; a task that the remaining Vikings found to be near sacrilege, but kept their mouths shut and simply exhibited their displeasure with dark glares and whispered curses under their breath as the Knights passed by. Gunnar divvied up the Knights into pairs, pointing out rowing benches to take down the length of the boat. 

“Truly these are strange and exciting times, my friends. Strange and exciting times! Knights taking up the oars of a Viking dragon ship? Never in our history has any skald ever sung of such tales, and perhaps after today they will never do so again,” Gunnar said heartily, slapping a Warden so hard on the back that the impact sent the Knight tumbling into his bench with a sharp grunt, “But, to take up the oar of a true dragon is no small thing! For once in your miserable, clanking lives you will see if you are truly stronger then all that pathetic armor you wear. To see if you have the true strength of a powerful Viking to be a part of something greater then your insignificant selves. To hear the pounding drum and feel the rhythm of the oars pumping like the very beating of your cowardly hearts within your own chest! You are no longer just a fragile and weak warrior, but one with the vessel, one with the dragon. One with us all! Vikings to the end!” As his words rang out, the other Viking warriors chiming in with their own roar of approval, stamping their feet on the deck as they held tight to their oars.

“We know how to work as a unit,” Priscilla chided as she looked up at the giant Raider, arms crossed across her chest. She had a piece of white and red cloth torn from her tabard wrapped around her neck, giving her the look of someone ready for the snowy heights of Valkenheim rather then the warm lowlands of Ashfeld. “It's a rather unavoidable outcome of fighting and sinking dragon ships just like this one for years on end. An unfortunate circumstance of having a castle with a beach side view.”

Gunnar looked down at the much smaller Peacekeeper for a moment, then slowly bent down to her height, addressing her as if she were a young child. “Well in that case, welcome to the other side,” he smiled under his beard, “I guess that you already know what to expect then as we approach the harbor. Arrows raining down on our heads long before we've reached the shore. Catapults obliterating the boat next to yours. Ballistas. Traps laying in wait, unseen beneath the water to rip your ship apart. The screams of your comrades before they slip beneath the waves, sinking down to the bottom to become food for the crabs. You'll all be brave though, I'm sure. Never once will you stop pulling at the sea with your oar, even as your bench mate lies dead at your feet, choking on his own blood with an arrow through his neck. No, not you. Not when you've seen it all before after all.”

Priscilla stood her ground as she and Gunnar stared each other down through their helmets. He had that same cocky grin on his face that he always seemed to have whenever he addressed her, and it made her fingers twitch to make a grab for her dagger and slice the corner of his lips just a bit wider. Thankfully though Coal stepped up and put a hand on her shoulder, distracting her and Gunnar both from their staring contest.

“Just show us to our seats already. We'll get the job done, you can count on that,” the Conqueror said firmly. He had his own red and white scarf folded around his neck, just as the rest of the Lion Flame Knights did to set them apart in the coming battle.

Gunnar glanced up at Coal, stood and smiled at him before waving his hand towards the back of the ship. “Right this way then, my lord and lady. I have a special spot picked out just for the both of you.”

He took them to the very last bench on the port side, which remained empty behind two Berserkers sitting closely together; a woman with the sides of her head shaved and a man with a braided mustache and beard. They looked up at the approaching Knights with cruel eyes glinting behind their metal faceplates, like hungry wolves snarling at intruders in their territory. Gunnar stopped next to them and gestured towards the empty bench, waiting for Priscilla and Coal to take a seat. As the Knights sat down the two Berserkers turned and watched them as if their two bodies were one. They never broke eye contact, or wavered in the intensity of their aggressive glares, frowning over their shoulders at their new rowing mates. Priscilla and Coal stared right back, sitting up straight and on guard for any sudden movement from the two wild warriors.

Gunnar chuckled to himself, cradling his axe in his arms and rather enjoying the tense situation that was of his own making. “All settled in? Good. Perhaps some introductions then,” he grinned, slapping his hand down on the male Berserker's shoulder, “These two filthy animals are Ragnar and Ragna. Now, their just about everything you'd expect out of two mad as fuck, bloodthirsty, god chosen warriors, but all you really need to know if you're going to be spending the voyage with them is that one hates cock and loves quim, and the other very much likes both. That, and they've both come here to spill the blood of as many heathen Knights as they can, but I'm sure you've already guessed that by now. I'll go ahead and leave it to you to figure out which is which.” With that he took a step closer to Priscilla and Coal, using his greater height to lean over the both of them as he stuck a finger in their faces. “Remember, don't fucking falter. We row as one, or we die as one. Simple as that,” he growled, glancing over at the twin Berserkers as if the message was for them as well. He gave the Knights one last hard look before giving them some parting words as he turned away. “Try not to kill each other before we get there. We're all in this together now.”

Priscilla watched the big Raider walk away up the deck of the ship, then turned back to the two Berserkers in front of her. The woman, Ragna she supposed, was looking her up and down with just the barest hint of a grin across her lips. Ragnar on the other hand was baring all his teeth in a unnerving smile that could have been easily been mistaken for a primal snarl. He looked excitedly between Priscilla and Coal, as if he couldn't decide which one he wanted to sink his teeth into first. 

“I'm the one who likes both,” Ragnar said proudly as he tapped his hand against his chest, evidently eager to share the news. He looked at them both expectantly for some sort of answer, to which Priscilla averted her gaze out towards the river and the silent Conqueror simply took his shield and placed it firmly between his legs and took hold of the oar in front of him. Ragnar's smile quickly faded in disappointment, and Ragna laughed at her brother's misfortune.

Priscilla silently reminded herself that all of this would be worth it in the end. Just a bit more work and then both she and Ashfeld would be free of these heathens. Until then though, it was going to be a long trip to the harbor.

Back at the prow, Herleif worked his jaw and then spit over the railing and into the river. He had watched enough ships sail off down the river, and was ready to get underway. “Alright! We've wasted enough time dawdling about!” he roared over the clatter of warriors stowing weapons and lining the side of the ship with their shields, “Prepare to cast off! Anyone not on board can watch their chance for Valhalla sail away without them!”

He turned and looked over the deck, watching warriors scramble to their rowing benches and picking up their oars. Gunnar was walking towards him up the deck, Dane axe resting over one shoulder as he came to take his spot next to his brother. Helge was seated next to the mast at the center of the ship, looking over scattered finger bones as she conversed with the voices that only she could hear in her head. At the back were Ragnar and Ragna were rocking back and forth on their bench together, already snarling as they worked themselves up for the journey and fight ahead of them. Gods help whoever had to sit next to them during the trip down river. 

Even Skuld had taken a seat on a bench and picked up the oar of a fallen warrior, prepared to aid the living in her effort to serve the dead. The man sitting next to her looked her up and down nervously, wondering if being so close to a Valkyrie before battle was a good omen or a bad one. Which ever it was Skuld paid the man no mind, but rather looked up at Herleif and caught him with her piercing blue eyes.

He nodded at her. She nodded back, and he knew that he had her confidence. It was time to go. Time to meet whatever fate the Norns had set out for them that day, and to sail without fear as the All Father watched over them.

“Today Odin blesses us all! We sail for the lake of darkness, to meet an enemy as fierce in their heathen beliefs as we are in our own,” he shouted, throwing his hands up into the air, “They believe that their volcano has the power to end us all! Us and the gods! I say we give thanks for this great and generous gift! Give thanks by slaughtering every last one of these bastards and turning the waters of Eitrivatnen red with their blood! Today we show our enemy that the harbor of Jafnhar's Bane holds no claim over us, and that not even their fiery god can protect them from our wrath!”

A chorus of cheers rang up down the deck of the ship. His words had even encouraged a few of the Knights on board to add their voices in support. 

Gunnar thumped the bottom of his axe on the wooden deck three times to urge the crew on. “Do Vikings fear death?” he shouted loudly, lifting his axe into the air.

The crew shouted back with a clear and resounding, “No!”

Herleif stepped closer to Gunnar and threw an arm around his brother's shoulders, thumping his fist against his own armored chest. “What do Vikings welcome?” 

“Valhalla!” the crew answered uproariously.

“I said what do Vikings welcome!?”

“VALHALLA!”

Herleif roared into the air along with Gunnar next to him. “Cast off!” 

The sound of a horn sounded clearly out into the air once again, and the full longship was pushed away from the dock and drifted further into the river. Oars splashed into the water, and the sail was hoisted to achieve all speed as the dragon ship pulled away from the dock. More of Herleif's ships followed suit soon after, until the river was choked full of longships sailing off to do battle upon the lake.

Boom Boom Boom Boom

Drums beat out the steady rhythm of the oars, taking the ships down river until gentle waters gave way to rolling waves. The Viking fleet had sailed through the night, and now as the rising sun slowly brightened the sky to the sight of the vast and open Lake Eitrivatnen.

Whatever dark reputation the lake had for the warriors of Valkenheim seemed to vanish as the longships pushed their way through the choppy water. Taking the fight to the Divine Pyre was a second chance to right past wrongs and claim the glories of taking Eitrivatnen harbor after the failure of Jarl Jafnhar years ago. There was a sense of eager fury hanging over the fleet, the Viking warriors ready for the chance to put their weapons to use against their enemies. 

When the sight of Divine Pyre triremes appeared upon the horizon a cheer went up among the Viking sailors, along with the sound of horns signaling to take the attack to the enemy. The eagle wreathed in flame was clear upon the trireme's sails, coming to inflict what damage they could against the Viking horde before they could ever reach the harbor.

“Light up the boar.” Herleif ordered to a warrior, waving his hand up towards the monstrous head at the Salt Boar's prow. Lighting a torch, the warrior climbed up to the beasts head and tipped the flickering flames it into the metal grate in it's mouth and setting it alight. The hog breathed fire once again, giving new life to its threatening visage. More ships did the same, until the fleet was a line of flame spewing dragons rushing towards their enemy. 

Boom Boom Boom Boom

Herleif squinted at the approaching ships, watching as they grew larger with every passing drum beat. They were larger than most of the ships in the fleet with the exception of the dragon ships themselves, but that wasn't what had caught his focus. He looked from one ship to another, frowning in confusion. “Ten? Ten ships? This is all they send against us?”

“Perhaps they are holding the rest in reserve? Closer to the harbor?” Gunnar asked, gazing out over his brother's shoulder. The actual harbor still remained far off and out of sight. Lake Eitrivatnen was the largest lake in all of Ashfeld, and the eastern shore was still a ways off. Gunnar grinned and slapped Herleif on the back. “What a waste, ten ships against our fleet. Hardly seems the effort. We'll make quick work of these and move onto the rest.”

“Right,” Herleif said grimly, but truthfully he had his doubts. So few ships going against their fleet was of course suicide, a move that even a Viking eager to enter Valhalla would consider pointless. What was the Divine Pyre trying to achieve by sailing against them out on the lake? Was this just a desperate attempt to try and thin their numbers before they reached the shore? If so, he would make sure they sorely regretted trying such an ill conceived plan. 

One trireme was out in front of the rest, cutting through the water straight for the Viking fleet. Along with Herleif's dragon ship, two other smaller and sleek longships advanced to surround and box the enemy in. More longships followed close behind, ensuring that the enemy would be completely surrounded even if it slipped past Herleif. He eyed the enemy a bit longer, then turned and called out to the drummer at the mast. “Double speed! Run up on them fast, port side! We'll close them in and swamp the deck! Anyone not rowing grab shields and provide cover from arrows!”

Boom-boom Boom-boom Boom-boom Boom-boom

The longship's speed increased, pushed through the water by warriors pulling at the oars and wind filling the sails. Turning to the left, Herleif's dragon ship moved to come up on the enemy's starboard, letting smaller longships move in for the attack on the port side. One Bilrost ship was out in front of the rest, leading the charge as Herleif followed behind in the Salt Boar. With hooks and rope it would slide up next to the vessel and lash them together, allowing the battle ready Vikings to swarm the enemy and cut the Pyre Knights down to the last man. Even now the oars of the leading longship's starboard side were being drawn in, rushing at the Pyre before they could turn away.

Herleif watched as the trireme kept its course, neither turning or trying to slow down as the longships approached. It was like watching a rabbit leap into the jaws of a hungry wolf, which was a disturbing thought, even if he was the wolf. “They're fucking mad, these zealots,” he laughed to Gunnar, believing that the Pyre Knights aboard must surely be insane in their belief to the point of throwing their lives away in a hopeless attack. Tilting his head up, he called out over the wind and drew his sword from its sheath, lifting it into the air, “Draw weapons and prepare for boarding! Hooks and ropes at the ready!”

“Rowers, starboard side! Prepare to pull in!” Gunnar shouted after, stepping down from the prow to join those gathered on the deck. Warriors rushed to carry out their Jarl's orders, readying their shields for incoming arrows and handing out weapons. 

Helge knelt next to the ship's mast, rattling finger bones in her hands before throwing them to the deck. “Fire on the lake... Jafnar's Bane... inferno on the lake...” she uttered over and over again, teeth bared as the voices chattered endlessly in her head. Fire. Blood. Death. “Shhh...shhh. We will give you blood, I swear it. Patience...flame and blood. Just wait...wait.”

Herleif stood firmly at the prow of his boat, sword and shield in hand. The other longship was nearly to the trireme now, bringing in its own port side oars to come in close and begin the attack. Time seemed to slow down, and Herleif snarled in frustration at having to wait. He was ready to fight, ready to kill. “Prepare for battle! Valhalla or victory!” he shouted, hearing the cheers and beating of weapons against shields thundering behind him.

Priscilla gritted her teeth as she watched the Pyre draw closer. Her arms and back were burning from all of the rowing, but that wasn't what concerned her the most at the moment. With each dip of her head as she worked the oar in and out of the water, she eyed the front of the approaching boat, noting the three bronze figureheads in the shape of large eagles looming out into the air from the prow. One eagle faced out straight, while the other two were angled outwards on either side of the first. Together they screamed with open beaks, crying out in silent fury against their foes.

Even from the rear of the ship she could see what lay within those open beaks. In the morning light she could see the glint of of metal tubes stretching out from withing the eagle's throats, seemingly attached to something on the trireme's deck behind the figurehead. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and for the first time since being given this insane mission she felt the chill of true fear.

Coal turned to look at her as they worked the oar together. “No ships out of dry dock, that was what you said,” he growled at her, glaring through his helmet, “They wouldn't be ready yet, you said. Well it looks like they were able to work well ahead of fucking schedule.”

“It doesn't mean that the weapon is ready. Could be that it's just archers and a few warriors on board, that's all,” Priscilla hissed back, even if she didn't quite believe the words herself. The description of the weapon given to them by Beaufort intelligence had been pretty clear as how the weapon would be fitted for use. The closer they got to those eagles, the more desperate she began to feel.

“Looks pretty ready to me. That ship isn't even trying to be evasive. It's coming straight for us!” He waited for a moment for Priscilla to answer back with another quip, but when she didn't he groaned in frustration. “Priscilla, we have to do something.”

“Turn. Turn the boat, dammit,” she cursed to herself, hating herself for taking part in the longship's advance. 

Ragna turned her head over her shoulder and flashed an angry snarl at the both of them. “Shut up and row, you dogs! A dragon ship has no room for cowards!”

Ragnar tipped his head back and let out a ridiculous wolf howl into the air. “Aaawooooh! Victory or Valhalla! Victory or Valhalla!” 

Coal and Priscilla rowed on in silence for a moment longer, until the Conqueror turned and chided her again in frustration. “Priscilla! This is suicide!” The taller trireme was looming nearer now. Soon it would be on them, those screaming eagles soaring above all their heads.

“Dammit!” Priscilla cursed, jumping up off of her bench and taking off up the deck. There was nothing left to do but try and convince a group of Vikings not to do the one thing they all lived for. “Don't attack! Turn the ship!” she screamed as loud as she could, desperate to make her voice heard over the beating drums, crashing waves and roaring wind. Her heart was pounding desperately in her chest, a cold fear gripping her as they sailed closer and closer towards death. “Quick! For the love of God, turn the fucking ship!”

Herleif turned as he heard a woman shouting over the wind. He frowned, first wondering who would dare give orders on his longship, and spotted Priscilla running down the deck and waving her arms in the air. For a moment he couldn't quite catch what she was saying over all the noise, but the desperation and fear in her voice was quite clear.

Gunnar stepped up to block the Peacekeeper's path, raising his axe as if expecting some sort of treachery to finally be revealed from their Knight allies. “Get back to your bench! We row as one!” he roared at her. His warning did nothing to stop her though, and she ran right up on him and grabbed the haft of his axe as he pushed it in front of her.

“Herleif, turn the ship!” she shouted at him, trying to slip past the Raider. Gunnar dipped and weaved with her, making sure to keep her at bay and away from the Jarl. Priscilla fought against him, craning her neck to glance at Herleif over Gunnar's shoulder. “If you don't then we all die!”

Bones clattered upon the deck as Helge threw them again. Somewhere nearby she heard shouting, a voice crying out in fear. The voices were louder though. They were angry, hateful. They screamed of pain, doom and death, shouting louder and louder until it felt like her skull would crack. She looked at the bones, saw the message laid out before her, and suddenly the voices vanished. All was silent again, and she could finally hear what it was that the person was shouting with such distress.

“Do as she says!” Helge screamed as she jumped up to her feet, rushing over to the port side and grabbing hold of an oar already being handled by two warriors. She pulled at the oar furiously along with them, looking up at Herleif with wide eyes. “Fire on the lake! Turn!”

Herleif looked back, stunned as the Shaman echoed the plea of the Peacekeeper. What did they know? What terror was about to rain down on them before they could strike at their enemy? He looked back at the approaching oncoming ship and suddenly he knew. The Pyre Knights weren't making a mistake by rushing in head long against their fleet. That had been their plan all along.

Over the pounding of drums and crashing of oars through the waves, there was a low rumble that rose up into the air from the trireme's prow. As they sailed closer to the enemy, Herleif could hear the Knights aboard shouting to each other quickly and with sharp urgency. He could see the tops of their helmets as they moved about like ants at the front of the ship, working at something just out of sight behind the eagle's outstretched neck. The low rumbling grew louder, turning into a hiss that emanated from the tube in the eagle's throat.

“Raise shields!” someone shouted just as the telltale high pitched whistle of arrows filled the air, death raining down on them from above. Arrow heads thunked into sturdy shields, soon followed by the cry of those not able enough to protect themselves quickly enough.

Herleif hefted his shield above both himself and Gunnar just in time, feeling two arrows slam into it from above. For a moment he thought that the hissing he had heard had just been the arrows falling from the sky, but even after the first volley he could still hear the sound of it clear in the air. He waited under his shield for more arrows to fall, but none came. What did come next though was a weapon so great and terrible that no shield or armor had any hope of standing against it.

The sharp hiss grew into an ear deafening roar just as a torrent of flame erupted out from all three of the eagle's throats. The bright flash of flame arced through the air, making the flaming dragon mouths look like small candles flickering in the wind. It circled out in front of the trireme, creating a ring of death to burn anything in it's path. 

Too late did the first Viking longship realize what was happening, and even as the call went up to steer out of the way there was nothing to be done as it was engulfed. In seconds the entire vessel was overcome by fire, and the terrible cries of those on board drowned out by the roar of flame that still flashed through the air.

“By the gods!” Herleif shouted, squeezing his eyes shut as he was momentarily blinded by the bright flash that had taken him by surprise. Even then he could still feel the heat biting at his face. When he opened his eyes again everything before him was burning, and the longship that had been set ablaze was already sinking into the lake. Somehow even the water surrounding the doomed ship had become a sea of flames, as if an evil magic was allowing the weapon to forego the laws of nature in a need to destroy anything it touched. The inferno danced upon rolling waves, jumping upwards like greedy hands around the longship to pull it down out of sight. 

Herleif watched helplessly as his warriors tried to escape a painful death by jumping into lake, only to leap overboard into more danger. They died screaming in agony, trying to their best to swim in searing water before they eventually sank beneath the waves by the weight of their armor to drown. 

The Pyre crashed right through the burning wreckage without pause, breaking the longship's mast beneath it's bow. Crying bronze eagles passed through black smoke like hungry demons seeking their next meal. Soon the scorching flare from the eagle's mouth died away, seemingly spent, but Herleif could already see and hear Knights working at the trireme's prow to ready their weapon for another attack. 

Gunnar threw himself at the railing and stared open mouthed at the carnage left in the wake of the enemy's attack. The Divine Pyre had destroyed a longship in mere moments, wielding an fiery power more destructive then any in the realm of Muspelheim. “Odin save us! What evil power is this?” he shouted, knuckles white as he gripped the ship's edge, “Flames on the water? Not even a fire-flask has that kind of power!” He looked over to Herleif, eyes wide with shock at what he had just witnessed. “Is this the power of the volcano? It can't be!”

Herleif gritted his teeth, gripping his shield tight in his hand as he stared back at the enemy. It was was coming straight for them now. The other longship that had been sailing along with Herleif had already fallen back, turning wide to escape the fiery power of the Pyre ship. Glowing embers dripped from the open beaks of the eagles, and the air before them still shimmered with the heat of their terrible breath. Already the low rumble and rising hiss was once again beginning to fill the air. 

“It doesn't matter what it was! The power of gods or some evil magic, we press on!” he roared as he jumped down from his spot at the prow and raced down the deck and past the rowing benches with all haste. He slapped the backs of every warrior he passed by, shouting at them, encouraging them to put all of their heart and strength into rowing through the choppy waters. “Hard to port! To port! Row! Show these bastards no fear! We take the harbor, we press on! Row!” The drummer at the mast once again picked up the beat of the oars, faster then ever now to escape the scorching threat bearing down on them with each passing moment.

Boom-boom Boom-boom Boom-boom Boom-boom

The air sparked with the hiss of flame, and again a glowing gout erupted into the air from the eagle's throats. More bright embers arched into the air and fell like molten rain, setting the lake ablaze and turning it into a sea of glowing flames. The lake of darkness it seemed had become a lake of light, bright and terrible, brought on by the Divine Pyre's true might.

Coal ducked as the arc of bright flame hissed through the air. The blaze was no where near his head, but that much fire had a way of making a person fearful no matter how close it was. He had seen that the figurehead of the trireme had been shaped to look like bronze eagles, but the overwhelming rush of the weapon igniting sounded more like the bone chilling roar of some beast risen from the pits of Hell. He gripped the oar in his hands tightly, barely able to hold onto it against the rushing water as he sat along on the bench.

Just when he thought the lake might wrench the oar from his grip, Priscilla jumped down next to him and helped take up the burden of pivoting the ship away from the falling flames. They both let out a strained cry as they pulled with all of their strength, along with every other poor soul sitting with an oar in their hands. 

“Dammit! I told you this was a bad idea!” he shouted at Priscilla next to him, unable to keep himself from voicing his anger about this fool mission, “Did you see that!? How do we fight that? We're going to die here sailing on a fucking Viking ship because of you!” 

“Yes I fucking saw it, and we won't die as long as you keep rowing! Now shut up and fucking pull!” Priscilla shouted back, pumping her arms as fast as she could, like it was up to her alone to keep the boat moving.

Coal groaned beneath his helmet as the air around them grew hot like the sun with another burst of flame from the eagle's mouth. “This is madness! I thought you said the weapon wouldn't be ready yet?”

“I said with any luck it wouldn't be!” Priscilla snapped, “Clearly between the two of us we have no fucking luck at all!”

“You didn't know that from the beginning!?” Coal shouted back, leaning back on his bench to bring the oar up before pushing it down into the water again, “We're sailing with Vikings! We were driven from our home by fanatics! I'm a God damn conscripted convict, you fool! What makes you think we had any luck to start with!?”

“Just shut up and row!” Priscilla yelled, kicking at his foot with her own to get him to focus.

The hull of the dragon ship groaned, cutting a sharp turn in the water as the Divine Pyre closed in. Burning waves splashed up against the hull as fire fell from above, making the warriors on the starboard side of cry out in pain and fear as they jumped up from their benches. Coal could see the tall Valkyrie standing up from her seat and rushing down the rows to urge the warriors to sit and take up their oars once the ship was clear of the on coming trireme. A midst all the chaos she seemed astoundingly calm, something that Coal himself could not manage. He squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled at the oar, willing himself to just ignore the heat of the flames and focus solely on getting clear of danger. 

Coal felt like his body was already burning from working the oar as hard as he could, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins gave him the extra strength he needed to keep working through the fear and pain. It was like he was sailing through a harrowing fevered dream, and he didn't know which part of this situation was the most insane; having a bunch of volcano worshiping cultists from his own country rain fire down upon his head, or listening to the two Berserkers in front of him whoop and laugh their way through it all. Regardless of which one it was there was one thing that Coal was very much certain of. He really should have just stayed in prison.

Glowing death was all that Herleif could see before him now. The blaze had come so close to the ship that he had feared the wooden hull would start to burn simply from the heat alone, but somehow they had made it out of the way just in time. Warriors gritted their teeth and groaned as their oars churned in the waves to the beat of the drum, pulling the longship on a path clear of the Pyre's attack and on to clear water.

Then with a great splash the other line of oars dove back into the water, adding even more power and speed to pull away as quickly as possible from the passing trireme. Fire swept through the air, landing harmlessly upon the water that still foamed in the wake of the longship. A shout of excitement rose up among the warriors, along with sighs of relief and cries of thanks to the gods for seeing them through the danger.

Herleif knew that his warriors truly had themselves to thank for surviving the Pyre's attack. The gods might indeed be with them now, but it was by the strength of their backs and the determination of their will that had given them a successful escape. He wanted to congratulate them, to celebrate in this small victory that they had earned, but he knew that the danger was far from over, let alone the fight for the harbor itself. 

“Do not falter! Keep those shields raised high!” he shouted down the deck. His warriors heeded the order just in time, as yet more arrows fired fell down from above to slam into upturned shields. Another volley followed after, but soon the dragon ship pulled far enough away to be out of range of the Pyre's archers. Herleif lowered his own shield, and waved to the drummer at the mast to keep the beat going. “Keep up the pace, and hold onto your courage! This fight isn't over yet! The harbor still awaits us!

Boom Boom Boom Boom

There was another resounding roar that erupted through the air, and Herleif knew before he even turned to look that the eagles had spouted fire once again. He turned, spotting a flaming longship crashing into another as it failed to escape the spray of glowing embers coming at it. Even as his own vessel sailed safely on he could hear the screams of warriors burning alive, unable to save themselves from even in the water beneath them. 

It was as if the lake had been set ablaze by the very power of Mount Ignis. Black smoke billowed up into the sky as the Divine Pyre sailed on, unrivaled with its terrible weapon. But not even great and devastating power such as the Pyre's magic weapon can last long against overwhelming numbers. The Viking fleet was closing in, and the further the Divine Pyre sailed against the longships the less room it had to maneuver through the waves.

Like Odin charging upon his swift and mighty steed Sleipnir, one of the longships from Herleif's hold came rushing in from the side against the enemy. It slid straight through the flames dancing upon the water and came at the trireme with all speed, ramming into it's broadside with a bone shaking crash. Everything seemed to go quiet for a moment as all eyes turned watched the boat rock from the impact, tilting to the side as its hull buckled under the longship's reinforced bow. 

As if the longships themselves were being worked up into a battle frenzy, another came careening in to land a second blow against the triremes keel. Already knocked dangerously off balance, the enemy ship rolled and slammed onto its starboard side. The large hull groaned as it capsized, its great mast and sail crashing into the water and sending white spray into the air. 

A cheer of victory came up from all the surrounding longships, Herleif's included, but it soon became evident that just because the boat was doomed to sink did not mean that the danger was over just yet. Even as Pyre Knights fell from the deck and sank beneath the waves, burning death continued to erupt from the eagle's mouth. It arced into the air like some kind of hellish death scream as the vessel went down. It spread over the water like a blanket of death, forcing incoming ships to quickly alter their course and sail around lest they be swallowed up by the infernal heat. The two longships that had crashed into the enemy were now desperately trying to get themselves dislodged from its hull, pushing at its exposed underbelly with their oars to escape the fire spreading around them. 

The first longship to hit the trireme was able to get itself free and start rowing away from the danger to safer waters, but the other was not so lucky. It pulled away from the sinking boat only to row back into the flames which had by then surrounded it, setting the ship alight in just a few moments and sending it's crew into a panic. While one half burned, the warriors on board began to jump from the other end, taking their chances in the choppy waves and trying to swim to the nearest longship to be rescued. Few made it. More slipped beneath the lake and never came up again.

In moments the trireme was nearly beneath the water. Only the bow remained above the surface now, with those three terrible eagles belching what smoke and embers they could until the very end. If there were any Pyre Knights that had somehow survived there would be no hope for them now, surrounded by enemy ships and a inferno of their own making. As the eagles finally fell beneath the waves, the water boiled and began to steam as the strange weapon was extinguished and the heated bronze rapidly cooled. Finally the Pyre vessel was gone.

There were still more enemy ships sailing out against the fleet though. Herleif looked out across the water and saw smoke rising up among the fleet. He could hear the roaring of fire, and the crashing of ships unseen among all the smoke. The rest of the Divine Pyre cut their way into the fleet, but the Viking longships still sailed on to meet them. 

Without warning the world suddenly shook as a great explosion erupted from further down the line of ships, scattering wood, water and bodies alike. A thick cloud of dark smoke billowed up into the sky, and a great swath of the lake was set alight along with any craft unfortunate enough to be caught in the explosion's wake. Even though it was a fair distance off, Herleif still ducked upon the deck as the shock wave sent his ship rocking upon the lake. Had the Pyre Knights done something gone wrong with readying one of their weapons, or did a Viking longships just have the misfortune of striking the trireme in just the wrong spot to set off the explosion?

Judging by the sight of more and more black smoke rising up into the sky, he could only guess that each of the Divine Pyre's ships had this terrible weapon at their disposal. Looking out across the water he tried his best to spot any sign of the enemy among his allies, but with so much thick smoke filling the air he could only spot two triremes that were still sailing through the Viking fleet, spewing forth flames from their prows. Each left burning wreckage in its wake, but there were still many more longships to contend with. Against those odds the triremes wouldn't last long, even with the power of their holy volcano on their side.

“That was too close,” Coal said, rowing a bit easier now as the longship sailed on, putting the burning lake behind them. The ship rolled over the waves with ease now, but the smell of burning timber and smoke was still heavy on the wind.

Priscilla rolled her head on her shoulders, trying to work out the kinks in her neck after working the oar for so long. “Its not over yet. Stay close to me once we reach the harbor. I don't want us getting separated by anymore tricks.”

Coal gave a gruff laugh that echoed from underneath his helm. “Not so trusting in your channels of intelligence anymore? Can't say I blame you after that little fiasco. Next time you make contact with Beaufort you should tell the Lord Warden to go stick his head in a fire and see how much he likes being roasted.”

“Be quiet,” Priscilla snapped. She glanced up at the two Berserkers in front of them, but the savage twins didn't seem to have heard or cared what Coal had carelessly said. “Just keep your head down and keep your wits about you. There's no telling what the Pyre may have in store for us now.”

Coal shrugged his big shoulders. “I'm not worried. Once I get dry land under my feet and my flail swinging I'll be fine. I just think that these Pyre bastards aren't the only ones we need to be concerned about as far as this little mission of ours goes. Was this really the best plan the legion commanders could come up with? ”

Looking over her shoulder, Priscilla glanced back over the waves at the hundreds of longships full of Viking warriors sailing with them. Soon they would be crowding the narrow streets of the harbor as they brought the sword to their enemies, washing the cobblestones red with blood. “Apparently so. We're getting close now, be ready.”

The hazy shapes of buildings and towers could be seen now on the horizon, bringing a smile to Herleif's lips. There was also the shape of another vessel appearing out of the harbor all by itself, but the threat of more flames seemed less demoralizing now that their goal was finally within grasp. They had made it. Through fire and smoke they had arrived at the harbor. Eitrivatnen was theirs for the taking. 

Herleif directed his crew towards the southeast, leading his portion of the fleet behind him to the barracks where they would make their landing. The lone trireme seemed to be sailing straight for the center of the fleet, meaning that it would be Erik's problem to deal with while Herleif focused his forces on their part of the attack. He could see the Pyre ship spouting burning embers now at the approaching longships, but by this point the Viking sailors had learned to steer clear of the front of the vessel, maneuvering quickly around to its sides or stern to make their attack. Even with such a power at the enemy's disposal there was nothing one ship could do to stand against the enormous fleet. For as devastating as the Divine Pyre's weapon was they had seemed woefully ill prepared to use it. Ten ships were all that had been spotted sailing on the water, leaving the rest still unaccounted for.

Now was not the time to worry about where the other triremes might be lurking though. It was clear sailing across the lake to the docks of the harbor, and Herleif had learned long ago to cherish what few gifts the Gods sometimes gave during battle. His warriors could now row unencumbered from the threat of enemy attack, but as they got closer he could see Pyre Knights rushing to take up defensive positions along the harbors docks and markets, ready to make the Vikings fight for every bit of ground from the moment they set foot off of their ships.

“Bring down the sail! Ready your weapons and prepare to bring in the oars!” Herleif shouted, unable to keep a grin from his lips even after sailing through actual fire upon the lake just to get to this point. He gripped his sword tightly, feeling it's familiar weight in his hand as he banged the flat side of the blade against the center of his shield. “Remember that the gods already know who will live and who will die in glorious battle upon these shores! So fight hard! Fight well! Fight without fear! Give the rest of us a death worthy of remembering you by in songs and sagas! We live knowing that Valhalla awaits us when we clash steel with our foes here today, and every Knight pisses himself in fear believing that they will wake up in Hell after our blades pierce their weak hearts!”

A cheer went up as warriors scrambled to carry out his orders, bringing down the sail and setting out weapons for those still working the oars. Herleif swiped his sword up into the air and looked over towards the harbor and the army of purple and gold warriors that awaited them there. He shouted out loud and clear, letting his voice be carried on the wind so that his enemies might hear him just as well as his crew. “Victory or Valhalla!”

“VICTORY OR VALHALL!” echoed the warriors behind him, a cry that was picked up by the ships following behind in their Jarl's wake.

Gunnar thumped the butt of his axe against the deck, taking up a position on the starboard side as it approached the docks of the harbor. “Form the shield wall as soon as we make landing! Hold the line, and give no ground!”

They were coming up on a market place near the barracks, next to a large gate sitting in the water nearby. It blocked off what looked to be a large craft behind it. One of the missing Pyre ships, as yet unprepared to set sail and bring fiery death to it's enemies. Herleif could hear the shouts of the Pyre Knights as they readied themselves for the attack. An entire raiding fleet was coming right at them upon the rushing waves, a sight to scare any man into running in fear, but these were all zealots and fanatics too caught up in their own delusional beliefs just to break without a fight. He could see Lawbringers and Wardens towering above their troops as they shouted orders, and sturdy Conquerors filling in the gaps in the lines with their shields.

The distance was closing now, so close to the moment of crashing steel and breaking shields. Just a bit longer now before the carnage would begin. The world seemed to go quiet, like the calm just Thor striking his mighty hammer upon his anvil. Out of the water rose up great wooden spikes, meant to spear and catch the enemy ships before they could reach the docks, but the Salt Boar was too sleek and quick, sailing around them and leading the way for the others to do the same.

“Oars in!” Herleif shouted, taking up his position at the prow to jump ship as the boat glided along the water towards the dock. There was a harsh clattering of wood as all the oars were brought in from both sides, letting momentum carry them the rest of the way. Ragnar and Ragna snarled as they both threw down their oar and jumped up from their bench, drawing their twin axes from their belts as they quickly made their way up the deck. Helge joined them, long knife and hatchet at the ready as she gave her enemies a wicked and bloodthirsty grin. Skuld came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Gunnar, spear already leveled at the enemy as they came closer to the dock with each passing moment. 

Priscilla gathered her Knights behind the Bilfrost warriors, ready to provide support or fill in any gaps in the line as they made their initial attack. “Steady. Steady men,” she said quietly just to her Knight as she took up a position behind Coal with his protective shield and flail, “Remember, we are Knights of Ashfeld, and we will reclaim what is ours.”

Herleif gritted his teeth, lifting his shield up in front of him and holding his sword at the ready as the tense moments seemed to slow to a crawl. He stared over his shield at a single Warden that was prepared and ready on the dock, longsword in hand, purple and gold armor gleaming in the sunlight. He would be Herleif's first target, his first kill once they had made their landing. Herleif glared at the single Knight, as if he were his most hated enemy in all the world.

A row of dinghies were tied to the dock as the dragon ship sailed up. All were crushed beneath the ships bow, splintering to pieces as the longship scraped up against the dock. Wooden boards shifted underneath the Pyre Knights feet as the dock was shaken by the force of the impact, putting the enemy off balance long enough for the Vikings to make their move

Herleif didn't think, didn't hesitate. He jumped forward from the boat as soon as it touched the dock, shield held firm and sword raised as he lunged at the swaying warden. Sharp metal swung through the air, followed quickly by a gout of red blood and a gurgled scream from the falling Warden. Herleif opened his mouth as he landed on his feet upon the dock, shouting at the top of his lungs to his warriors with all the hate and fury he could muster within his heart. “Attack! Attack! For the glory of Valkenheim, for the Allfather! Attack!”


	9. Harbor Dominion

The docks of Eitrivatnen harbor were left covered in blood and bodies as the Viking warriors pushed their way into the marketplace. No ground was given, and within moments the shield wall was made as Vikings and Pyre Knights clashed against each other with brandished steel and iron.

Herleif held his shield firm in the wall, standing shoulder to shoulder with the warriors next to him as he blocked incoming swords and spears. The majority of the Pyre's front line was made up of just foot soldiers, but every so often a Warden's longsword or a Lawbringer's poleaxe glanced off his shield. Herleif braced his feet and relied on the strength of those next to him to weather each blow, picking his own moments to strike with a thrust of his sword through the enemy's gaps. 

“Hold the line!” he shouted to his warriors, willing his voice to be heard over the commotion of battle, “Push them back! As one! Push!” A flash of light caught his attention, and he raised his shield just in time to block the point of a spear rushing for his face. The weapon glanced off the rim of his shield, and before the enemy could pull it back he opened his defense and struck forward. There was a sharp cry of pain, and a Pyre foot soldier fell dead on the ground. Blood coated Herleif's blade as he drew it back, dripping crimson rain onto his feet as he moved forward.

They were gaining ground, the Divine Pyre line crumbling against the Viking onslaught. Breaking away from the line as his warriors moved forward, Herleif jumped up onto a nearby crate for a better vantage point and take in the area of the fight. His ship had had landed just next to a small storehouse that opened up to the market and the enclosure that held the trireme. If they could take and hold that market then the southern half of the landing zone would be theirs to control, and the rest could be taken with a concentrated push against the Knights.

Watching the flow of the battle play out before him, Herleif began pounding his sword against the surface of his shield, setting a rhythm that was soon picked up by other's who came to reinforce the battle line. He continued until the noise rose up above the roar of battle like a strong and steady heart beat, and then shouted loudly over the fighting before him, striking the pace to which his warriors pushed ever forward. “Who is the one to bring the thunder?”

“Thor!” The Viking warriors responded, calling out as if with one powerful voice, and one body as they attacked their enemy. Swords thrust outward from behind shields, striking the Pyre Knights and leaving bodies to drop from the Pyre ranks as they pulled back. 

Herleif watched in grim satisfaction, keeping an eye on the surging line while beating the flat of his blade against his shield boss. “By who's mighty hand do we wage this war?” he called, curling back his mustached lip in a feral snarl.

“Tyr!” came the cry in answer, so loud that it even drowned out the shouting of the Knights before them. All down the line, Raiders brought down their axes over the shields of the enemy, cleaving through metal and bone in a spray of blood. More Knights fell, creating gaps in their line that the rest struggled to fill. Highlanders grabbed the nearest Pyre commanders, throwing them down only to be cleaved with their giant claymore blades, while spear wielding Valkyries struck down any foe who tried to press the attack.

“Who will be the one to welcome us into Valhalla with open arms?” Herleif shouted above the battle din.

“Odin!” came the call of the Vikings, their voices mad with fury and blood lust now. Their roar was so loud that it would shake even the doors of Valhalla and make the roots of the great tree Yggdrasil tremble.

Berserkers burst from the line and let their axes fly, ripping into the enemy line and breaking it entirely. A Warden screamed just before his head was cleaved from his shoulders. Blood crazed Shaman followed suit behind the Berserkers, slicing at legs and hacking into the backs of any Knights that tried to turn and run.

Herleif saw the enemy line falter, and jumped down to rejoin the line and push the advance. Joining up with a dozen other Warlords, Herleif led them in the shield charge. He caught the wide eyes of some poor foot soldier just before he barreled over them, smashing the Knight's face with his shield. Other Vikings followed behind, pushing down the dock into the market place and leaving the storehouse open for more warriors to make their landing.

The Vikings charged forward across the docks, pushing all the way into the marketplace and trampling over the fallen bodies of Pyre Knights as they went. “Break! Secure the area! We do not lose this market!” Herleif shouted as the Vikings surged into the heart of the market, directing warriors to guard the few entrances that led into the area. Behind them to the south was a set of stairs that led to a hall above, but he was much more focused on the two ramps that led up past the trireme and towards the barracks. 

As warriors filed into place with their shields, the doors of the barracks opened and more Pyre Knights came rushing out. “Here they come!” shouted Gunnar, taking up his place behind the shield wall with his axe raised. Herleif clapped his sword against the rim of his shield and stepped up to the line. A Lawbringer was leading the charge against them, poleaxe at the ready to spear his way through the wall of Viking shields. Herleif braced his legs, ready to block the attack when it came.

“Look out! Above us!” came a call from further back in the marketplace.

Herleif looked back and up to where the warrior was pointing, turning his attention up to the balcony that overlooked the market. He saw a dark shape jump out into the air, silhouetted by the bright sun, only for the shape to drop down onto an unsuspecting Raider and drive two sharp blades into the Viking's neck. The Raider dropped, and Herleif watched as an enemy Peacekeeper pull her knife and sword free in a gout of blood, already swinging them in an arc around her to fend off any incoming attacks. She ducked and rolled as a young dark haired Warlord tried to land a headbutt to knock her off balance, but fell with a cry of pain as his hamstring was sliced instead. The Pyre Peacekeeper didn't stop, didn't slow down as she wove her way through the midst of the Vikings holding the market, dodging and slicing between flashing blades and leaving the cobblestones splattered red in her wake.

Letting out a curse, Herleif moved to go to his warriors defense, but then remembered the Lawbringer charging him at the sound of stomping boots getting closer. He turned back just in time to block the Knight's spearing thrust of his poleaxe, but his footing was off now, causing him to be pushed back away from the line and create an opening in the shield wall. Herleif did his best to stop himself from being pushed further back, but the damage was already done. Pyre Knights were already focusing on the gap in the line, attacking the weak spot of the chain, forcing their way through and into the market. Backed up against his own warriors, Herleif was finally able to break the Lawbringer's momentum and push away the poleaxe with a shove of his shield. He followed up with a slash, but was blocked, his sword clanging off the Lawbringer's weapon. He struck again, and was blocked a second time. 

Luckily Herleif wasn't fighting alone, and having a horde at your back certainly had its advantages. Skuld appeared at Herleif's side, swinging at the Lawbringer's head with her small shield and knocking the Knight off balance. He was vulnerable now, stumbling to the side defenseless, but the warriors around them were too tightly packed together for Skuld to effectively follow up her bash with her spear. Thankfully Herleif was better equipped with his sword, thrusting it down from behind his shield to slash at the Lawbringer's groin. The Pyre Knight screamed and toppled over, giving Skuld the room she needed to raise her spear and skewer the metal giant through the neck. The last Herleif saw of the Lawbringer as he turned back towards his warriors, the Knight was coughing up dark blood through the holes in his helmet, slowly dying as the fighting continued around him.

Pushing his way through the throng of warriors, Herleif moved to stand against the Peacekeeper cutting down his men. It took him a moment to spot her in the crowded market, but soon he caught sight of her hooded figured kneeling above a body. She had someone on the ground, and was thrusting her dagger into their back repeatedly to make sure they did not get up again. Herleif let out a cry of challenge, barreling his way to her with sword raised. With the Peacekeeper's back turned he knew that he had her, and put the strength into his arm to make the strike to her head a clean kill. 

Then he noticed the body on the ground, dead in a pool of blood from three brutal and precise stab wounds. A Peacekeeper, garbed in the purple and gold colors of the Divine Pyre, the one who had leapt from the balcony to bring death to his men. The Knight kneeling before him now was dressed in red, white and gold, with a piece of cloth wrapped around her neck that he hadn't noticed before. Cold shock split through Herleif's chest, and he brought his sword up short, just barely stopping himself from cleaving it into Priscilla's skull.

Priscilla turned and looked up at the sword that had almost ended her life, then past it at Herleif. He couldn't see the look on her face behind her hooded helmet, but she seemed rather calm after having such a close brush with death. “Surely... our alliance hasn't broken that quickly, has it?” she asked him, panting hard through the holes in her visor.

Herleif squeezed the grip of his sword tight, and finally collected himself enough to pull back and step away. “By the gods, you really all do look alike from behind. So much for that bloody scarf idea,” he said with a shaky voice. The battle fury had been up in him, and the sudden need to stop had him feeling cold and sweaty beneath his armor, and each beat of his heart was like a the pounding of Thor's hammer upon his anvil. Taking hold of his sword and shield together, he reached out with his open hand and helped Priscilla up to her feet. 

It was then that the Conqueror that never seemed to be far from Priscilla's side pushed his way through the crowd of warriors to them. He looked between Herleif and Priscilla, eyeing the bloody weapons between them. “Everything good?” he asked the Peacekeeper.

“Yes. Just getting into the thick of it. Perhaps you would care to join?” Priscilla answered back, then nodded over to the shield wall that was doing it's best to stem the flow of Pyre Knights flooding into the marketplace. The clash of metal and the screams of the wounded were loud in the air. The Pyre was certainly making a push, but they were having a hard go of it against the sheer amount of Vikings standing in their way. If the shield wall didn't hold though, the market place would become a slaughter of both Knights and Vikings alike. “Starting with that seems like a good plan.”

Herleif looked over towards the Viking line and cursed. “Right, lets get to work.” Taking up his sword again, he looked over towards the horde of warriors spilling into the market from the docks and spotted Ragna and Ragnar among them. He waved his sword up in the air and called out their names for their attention. Ragna spotted him first, and punched her brother on his arm to get him to focus on their Jarl. “Ragna, take the stairs!” Herleif shouted, pointing towards the back end of the marketplace where the stairs led to the balcony above. “Ragnar, up to the ship!” The Berserker looked to the trireme, where gangplanks allowed for access up to the ship and then over towards the barracks where the Pyre Knights charged from. The siblings nodded to Herleif in understanding, and for a quick moment they touched their heads together before parting ways and taking a handful of warriors each to press the attack and outmaneuver the enemy.

With his orders being carried out, Herleif turned back to the growing hole in his line. He slapped his sword against the rim of his shield, and let out a growl of anger to turn his blood hot once again. “Get to it then, Knights. Now is not the time to stand idle. Show me what the Lion Flame can do.”

Priscilla laughed, and Coal actually looked at the Warlord for a moment and gave an appreciative nod of his head. “I think that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me on this whole trip,” he said, letting the spiked head of his flail drop down to swing on it's chain and brought his shield up in front of him. 

Together the three of them charged the against the warriors of the Divine Pyre, crashing into their ranks with battle cries on their lips. Herleif slammed the rim of his shield into a Warden's face, then cleaved his sword through him from shoulder to hip. Priscilla dodged a foot soldier's strike only to twirl around him and slice her dagger across his throat, while Coal swung his flail with such quick and practiced precision that the enemy he struck was dead before they hit the ground. They fought with unbound hate and fury, together as foes united by a common enemy. Beneath their feet the blood flowed like red waves upon the lake's shore.

Ragnar swung an axe low to trip up the leg of some poor foot soldier, then brought the other up and slashed his belly open while still in the air, spilling blood and guts like mead from a horn. With a hearty laugh on his lips, he twirled around a purple clad Peacekeeper and sank an axe blade deep into her back and dropped her with a sharp scream. The Pyre warriors watching shrank back in fear, making Ragnar laugh all the louder as he ripped his axe free and leapt joyfully at the enemy's line. 

He was blind to everything else around him as he cut down each new enemy upon the trireme's deck, cleaving with one axe and then the other. The Divine Pyre had reached the ship before him and his group of Viking warriors, creating a wall of defense to hold the deck and keep the path around to the market clear, but a strong line of shields was nothing to a battle crazed Berserker. With just a few swings of his axes he had chipped away at the shields of the weaker, less renowned foot soldiers and carved a way into them like a wolf among sheep. A mad, vicious, howling wolf that was more then happy to see the sheep cower in fear before him. 

It was too bad that his sister wasn't there to join him in the slaughter, but she had her own bloodletting to do guarding Herleif's position at the marketplace from above. Not that there would have been much to share with her upon the trireme's deck, as the Pyre line had already broken and the enemy warriors were retreating back towards the barracks. Ragnar swung at a Warden who had been guarding the Pyre's retreat from the ship, but growled in frustration as the Knight rolled away and took off running to regroup with his men. “Filthy coward!” Ragnar shouted after him, snarling with his teeth bare and angrily swiping both axes through the air, “May the gods piss on your ancestors and curse your cock to rot and fall off!” he shouted at the Warden's back.

Now that the ship was secure, Ragnar turned back to rejoin his warriors, but stopped when the sound of metal footfalls caught his ears. He looked to his right, and saw a whole troop of Pyre foot soldiers led by a Lawbringer and the same cowardly Warden running along a raised pathway towards a gatehouse towards the trireme's prow. “Ah, not good! Not good!” Ragnar fretted, knowing that the gate keeping the trireme harbored doubled as a bridge connecting the gatehouse and the docks where the Viking ships had made their landing. With that many troops the Pyre would certainly be able to hold the gatehouse and the northern half of the dock. From that position they would make the Vikings pay in blood to move forward, and be able to mount a counter attack across the bridge towards the landing zone.

Snarling in frustration, Ragnar ran back up the deck to regroup with his warriors. He would have to lead an attack on the gatehouse before the Knights could get a strong foothold there, though he knew in his heart that it would most likely result in his doom. But a Viking does not fear death at the hands of his enemies, especially one chosen by the gods such as him. He was Odin blessed, a Berserker warrior without fear. Slapping his axes together, he rallied his warriors to lead them down the gangplank against the enemy. “Steel yourselves, men! Now we go to meet the Allfather in the golden hall, so hold your heads fucking high and show no fear. We are Vikings, and our drinking horns will be overflowing with the blood of our enemies when we are greeted in Valhalla!”

The warriors beat their swords and spear shafts against their shields as they got into formation to charge. There was a set of stairs just across from the gangplank leading up into the gatehouse, but a bridge going above them made the path vulnerable to attack. To the left was another entrance near the bridge, but again a gaping hole in the gatehouse wall made it easy for the Knights to pounce on them from above. Ragnar could already see the Knights through that opening, taking up defensive positions to hold the building. The Lawbringer among them stepped forward to the building's edge, and pointed at Ragnar to single him out for death. Ragnar smiled at the challenge, and lifted one axe high in the air to prepare for the attack. “Ready!” he shouted to his men, muscles tense just before giving the signal to charge, “Victory or – Oof!”

Something small and hard hit Ragnar from behind, and as he flew through the air and down towards the ship's deck he thought that he had surly been struck dead. The battle was over, and his body was now just a lump of lifeless meat, useless to everyone he left behind. Ragna would finally stop having to share Helge's affections with him, and he would get to spend the rest of his days getting drunk off his ass in Odin's hall until Ragnarok came. All in all it was a rather fortuitous outcome for everyone involved when he thought about it. But the sharp sting of his head crashing into the wooden deck made him realize that he was still very much alive, and sadly he would have to wait to taste that golden mead just a little bit longer.

“I am not done with you quite yet, my love,” came a chilling voice through the ringing of his ears, and before he could even groan out a reply he was being hauled back up onto his feet. For a moment his legs were still shaky, but he was able to keep his footing and shook his head to clear away the blurriness from his eyes. 

Helge stood in front of him now, her smile all teeth and her eyes holding a sinister glint in them. He glowered at her, gripping his axes tight as he snarled in her face. “Daft woman! This is the time for iron and blood, not your games. The Allfather calls me home!”

The Shaman didn't flinch one bit before Ragnar's wrath, and instead grabbed the Berserker by his beard and yanked him even closer till they were staring one set of crazed eyes to the other. “Only I get to say when you can go on to the golden hall, and the voices tell me that we have much more fighting and living to do together.” With that she kissed Ragnar square on his lips, then slapped him across the face so hard he was sent whirling away with a grunt. 

Pivoting on one heel, she rounded on the Viking Warriors who all shrank back behind their shields, not daring to challenge a Shaman even after being bolstered to meet their deaths without fear. Helge smiled to see them tremble, and walked slowly around them as if they were cattle brought to the altar stone for sacrifice. “Odin himself has spoken to me, and he has no wish to have such pitiful and insignificant louts such as you tainting the glow of his great hall. So for now you all belong to me! And I have a thought for another way to bring our enemy low. One that will make the voices clamor for blood and sing our praises when we are done.” Turning over her shoulder, she pointed and brought everyone's attention over to the three eagle figureheads at the prow of the ship. “Fire was their weapon, and now it shall be ours.”

Helge clambered her way through the trireme's hold, moving towards the front of the ship, followed closely by three warriors to help carry out her plan. She could see up a head the metal pipes that snaked their way up along the trireme's hull to the figurehead above. It was unclear to her exactly how the enemy weapon worked, but with the gods guidance she would undoubtedly be able to figure out, even if it was only to destroy the entire ship in the process. There were three large metal tanks laid out before her that the metal snakes were attached too. Each tank had a lever behind it that reminded her of a forge's bellows, and there was a strange acrid smell about them that stung her nose. 

“What strange sorcery. They use metal to contain their fire?” One warrior asked as he came up next to her.

Helge chuckled lightly, pushing him out of the way as she circled the metal pots to see how they might work. “This is no sorcery. Their volcano is not that strong. Look, they take credit for the creation of others,” she said, pointing to a foreign script etched on one end of the tank's surface. 

“That's Wu Lin lettering, isn't it? What is this doing on a Knight's ship?” the warrior asked, and Helge was rather impressed that a low foot soldier might recognize the script. The warrior squinted as he looked over the three tanks. “So... how do we get it working?”

“Perhaps I should cut open your belly and seek out the answer among your entrails, hmm?” Helge asked without looking at the warrior. He quickly shut his lips tight, and the Shaman reached into the small pouch hanging from her belt and pulled out a handful of rune caved finger bones and teeth. “Well, if you will not volunteer, I guess we shall ask the gods for direction in a different way.” Tossing the bones and teeth onto the deck, watching as they clattered together in a chaotic clatter that made little sense to the warriors with her. “There,” she said, pointing at a finger bone that was spinning around and around without sign of slowing, “And this one,” a wolf's fang was rocking on it's curve among the rest that lay still. 

Looking at the tank furthest on the right, Helge motioned towards a wheel situated on top, near the front of the tank by the pipe. “You there, turn the wheel. And you two, help me with this lever.” The warriors stepped quickly to her command, and once the first had turned the squeaking wheel a few times Helge and the others began to lift the lever up and down, pumping it until they heard the rush of liquid flowing out of the tank and up the pipe. 

Helge laughed happily, the muscles in her arms working hard to keep the heavy lever working. “Do you hear them my friends? Do you already hear the voices calling out for blood?” she asked the warriors, but received nothing but weary looks in return. Helge didn't care though, no one else ever heard the voices. Strangely, knowing that she was the only one who could hear them made her enjoy listening to the voices all the more.

Ragnar roared as he brought his axe down onto the eagle's neck once again. The metal blade sank into the side of the bronze figure, and he let out a triumphant cry as he tore the axe free and stared into the gaping hole in the figurehead's form. It had taken him some time, but finally he had succeed in cutting his way through the bronze and opening up the pipe within. And not a moment too soon it seemed, as there was a sharp rush of what sounded like water coming up through the pipe towards him.

Leaping clear, Ragnar watched in amazement as a gush of clear liquid suddenly burst forth from the eagle's neck and soared into the air. The stream arced away from the ship, raining down on the north side of the dock and all over the gatehouse where the Pyre Knights stood. Ragnar laughed as he saw the Lawbringer and Warden jump away from the falling rain, and soon the air was full of an strange smell that sent his nose twitching. 

He turned his attention to his men that were defending the gangplank from Pyre foot soldiers. When the Lawbringer had seen Ragnar begin hacking away at the eagle, he had sent his troops to try to intervene. Whether or not the enemy knew what he and Helge were up to, Ragnar didn't know, but regardless the Viking warriors had managed to keep the Pyre at bay for now, but they wouldn't hold out for very much longer. “Pull back!” he called out to them, though it pained his heart to do it, “Time to go! Get those asses moving!”

Heeding the Berserker's command, the warriors slowly began to pull back, keeping a tight formation with their shields and spears to keep the advancing enemy from overwhelming them. Ragnar watched carefully, ready to rush in to help at any moment, but became distracted when he felt his boots become wet around his feet. Looking down, he found himself standing in a puddle that was growing outward from the open pipe. The sharp selling geyser was spraying all over the ship now, sending a shiver of panic rushing down Ragnar's spine. “Helge! Time to go!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, hoping to the gods that she could hear him down below deck. 

The rear line of Viking warriors was rushing past him now, back down the way they had come onto the ship to make their escape. Not all had abandoned the defense though, slowing the advance of the Pyre as they thrust and sliced with their spears and swords. Ragnar knew that these men had chosen to stay behind and buy the rest enough time to see the plan through, and it made his heart swell with pride to know that such brave warriors would soon be feasting with the gods in Valhalla.

Taking a step back, Ragnar pulled out a fire-flask from his belt, and he struck the spark cap once with his axe, but to no effect. A cry went up from the other side of the ship, and he looked up to see that the Lawbringer and pathetic Warden had left the gatehouse and were now cutting their way through the Viking warriors and up the gangplank. It took every ounce of will in Ragnar not to abandon the plan entirely and rush forth to meet those armored bastards with axes flying, but instead he did what he had to, and struck the spark cap again with his blade. The top of the fire-flask flashed began to spark bright, and Ragnar hurled it at the open pipe with all his might. Turning to run, he didn't bother to look and see where it landed. The loud crack of an explosion, and the burst of heat at his back told him that his aim had been true. There was a great rush of air as the explosion ripped outward, lifting Ragnar off his feet and throwing him towards the southern dock with a great cry of excitement.

For the second time that day he landed upon the ground with a hard thud, but this time he was quick to get back to his feet on his own, and turned around to marvel at the sight before him. The front half of the trireme had been engulfed by flames, the explosion of the fire-flask having been doubled by the Pyre's own weapon. The wound on the eagle's neck had become a gout of liquid fire, rushing through the air to splash against the gatehouse and setting it ablaze. 

From where he stood, Ragnar could see the Pyre Knights collapsing upon the burning deck, writhing in pain as they died a horrible death. The Lawbringer had retreated back down the gangplank to flee, but it was already too late. The explosion must have caused the fiery liquid to splash all over him, as his suit of armor had become an torch of flickering flame from which there was no escape. Soon he fell to his knees, no doubt roasted alive within the very armor that was meant to protect him. The cowardly Warden lay dead in a heap upon the deck, evidently not having survived the initial blast of fire that robbed the Pyre of their vantage point.

Ragnar threw up his axes and let out a long wolf's howl as fire and smoke rose up into the air before him. His time to meet the Allfather was not yet at hand after all, but he had no doubt that this moment would earn him a place near Odin's side when the battle of Ragnarok was finally at hand.

“Burn! Burn, you wretched worms of Midgard!” Came up a loud and shrill cry from the rear of the ship. Ragnar looked over to see Helge and her warriors emerging from below deck, and the Shaman was lifting her arms into the air as if urging the bright flames to rise even higher. “All your miserable lives have led to this end, and now you are nothing but food for the gods!” Helge laughed without restraint, eyes wide and tongue out as she watched the bodies of her foes burn to ash for the amusement of voices in her head.

Ragnar dropped his axes and sighed, using the blade of one to scratch at the back of his head. “Crazy woman. Always has to be the center of attention.” He muttered to himself.

There was a sharp crack from below the burning deck as the open tank caught fire and ruptured, and suddenly the whole front half of the trireme exploded in a roar of fire, bronze and timber. The gate and bridge in front of the ship was completely obliterated, littering the lake with debris. The plan had worked even better then expected, ending any chance of the Divine Pyre flanking the Vikings and attacking their ships. 

For the third time that day Ragnar was thrown off his feet and thrown to the ground in a heap. He could feel hot air rushing over him, and watched as twirling flames leapt up into the sky above. This time he did not move to get up, but instead just lay there and let out a long, quiet groan from between his lips. After a while he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and then Helge was standing over him with that same toothy grin spread across her lips. 

“The gods are pleased with you, Ragnar. They enjoy watching chaos and death, and you have given them much of both,” she said happily.

“Does that mean I'm done?” Ragnar wheezed up at her, his eyes still staring up at the smoke filled sky past her head, “Do I get to enter Valhalla now?”

Helge bent down and grabbed her lover's hand, grunting as she dragged him up off his back and then up onto his feet. “No, I have not said you can go yet. There is still more fun to be had in this life, and we must experience it together.” Slipping herself under Ragnar's arm, she helped support his weight and guided the dazed Berserker down the dock towards the market. “Come, we must go find Ragna and see what kind of fun she has gotten up to on her own.”

The sound of fire and battle filled the air as the trireme slowly began to sink into the lake, and Ragnar couldn't help but grin back at the Shaman. “Ha! Nothing could have been more fun then that. I'd bet my beard on it.”

Herleif had no idea what had brought about the terrible explosion on the ship's deck, but he would be sure to personally thank them with a bag full of silver once the battle was done. The fiery blast had acted as the perfect distraction to turn the tide against the Pyre Knights pushing their way into the marketplace. Herleif had been locked in pitched combat against a bucket helmed Warden when the explosion had ripped into the sky. The Warden had been so taken by surprise that he came up short while charging forward with his shoulder, allowing Herleif to cut his head clean from his shoulders right in front of a group of watching Pyre foot soldiers. He'd caught the head as it fell, tossing it back at the soldier's feet and sending them running back the way they had come.

From that point it was a rout as the Vikings forced the Divine Pyre out of the market and back towards the barracks, which was situated behind a large gatehouse for protection. Herleif and Gunnar led the charge up the ramp from the marketplace, with Skuld, Priscilla and Coal following close behind, but were stopped short when the found the great ironwood gate dropping closed before them.

“Dammit!” Cursed Gunnar, jerking his axe through the air in frustration. He turned towards the other warriors and waved them forward. “Bring fire-flasks! We'll have to burn this thing down to get through!”

Herleif shook his head. “No, we should go back through the market and follow after Ragna to get around. Burning it would take too much time.”

“Would going around be any quicker? By the time we reach the doors to the barracks those bastards will already be dug in and waiting for us,” said Gunnar.

Priscilla cocked her head up towards the gatehouse, holding out her sword to get the brother's attention. “Shh. Do you hear that?” Herleif and Gunnar both went silent to catch a hint of what Priscilla was talking about, and quickly noticed first the sound of fighting, and then the screams of dying men coming from behind the gatehouse walls. There was a loud clanking of gears and chain, and the cry of a woman shouting orders in an ear blistering tone. The great gate gave a groan, and then began to rise up again, clearing the path for the Vikings to pursue their foes.

Gunnar gave a triumphant laugh at their turn of luck. “The gods smile on us again!”

“It must be Ragna. She must have taken the gatehouse on her own!” said Herleif loudly, getting his warriors to cheer for Ragna's success.

“Did you have any doubt?” Came a gruff voice coming up through the crowd. Warriors parted way to let Ragnar and Helge through to join the Jarl and the others. The Berserker was looking a little rough around the edges as Helge helped him along, but he was alive and that was enough to put courage into the hearts of those who saw him. “My sister isn't going to let a little something like an army of Knights stand in her way of saving the rest of your asses,” Ragnar grinned.

Gunnar smiled, glad to see the wild Berserker still alive. “Was that big fire all your doing, you crazy fuck? You're looking a little singed about the beard.”

“I'm touched that you noticed. But no, the fire was all Helge's idea. Or at least from someone inside her head,” the Shaman beamed with recognition, and Ragnar stepped away to stand on his own again, “But what are doing standing here? We going to stare at each other's beautiful faces all day, or are we going to kill us some Knights?” Taking his dual axes, he slapped the flat of one blade against Gunnar's rear as he passed by the Raider, leading the charge through the gate. Gunnar jumped and grumbled at the slap, turning a bit red under his helmet. Herleif chuckled, and gave a signal of his sword to signal his warriors to follow Ragnar to the barracks.

They were late to the fight, and the courtyard behind the gate was already littered with bodies as Ragna and her men tore through Pyre Knights like a scythe through a field of wheat. Ragna was in the middle of chopping a Knight's head from his shoulders, and turned with a feral growl when she heard others approaching from behind. When she saw that it was her brother and the rest of the Viking horde, her mood barely changed. “Where the fuck have you been? There's bloody work to be done here,” she snapped at Ragnar, who smiled happily to see his sister. The two Berserkers greeted each other just how they parted, with Ragna clutching her brother behind his neck and touching their foreheads together in a shared moment. 

The rest of the Vikings finished cutting down any Pyre Knight unfortunate enough to be left outside of the barracks once the doors were closed and barred. Soon the courtyard was filled with the screams of the wounded and dying, and among it all Herleif stood frowning up at the great doors that barred his way to the rest of Eitrivatnen harbor. “Ragna, Ragnar! Find me a way through this door. Hack it down if you have to, just make it quick.” The Berserker siblings nodded as one, then set to ordering other warriors about, and rallied a few Raiders with their axes to set about cutting through the doors.

Herleif turned and surveyed the crowd behind him, looking for the one person he who he knew could tell him what to expect once they were through, and not seeing her anywhere. “Priscilla!” he called out, but received no answer. His gaze found another white and red Knight, a slight looking Warden who stood rather stiffly among the Viking horde. “You there! Yes you. Come here,” Herleif said gruffly, beckoning the Warden to him, “Where in Hel is Priscilla? She was just with us outside the gate, and now she seems to have vanished from the face of Midgard.”

The Lion Flame Warden looked around as if he had been unaware of of Priscilla's absence, which told Herleif that whatever the Peacekeeper was up to, she hadn't bothered to involve the rest of her Knights. “I do not know. I saw her just before we entered the courtyard, but lost sight of her in the crowd... my lord,” he added the last part quickly, remembering that he was talking to a Viking Jarl, “I do not see Coal either, and those two have always been close as of late.”

Herleif nodded, and waved the Warden away back to his companions. He had not noticed the Coal's absence either, but he did remember the Conqueror's concern when he had come to find Priscilla during the battle. Perhaps it was not a coincidence that the two of them had disappeared together, but he could not guess as to why.

“Has she betrayed us?” Asked Gunnar, speaking quietly at his brother's shoulder, “Perhaps she has gone to set about an ambush, or maybe to save her own skin?”

Herleif glanced at Gunnar, and shook his head. “No, I do not think she would betray us. I believe she is committed to this cause, along with the rest of the Lion Flame Legion. She fights with too much hate and fury for it just to be a ruse.”

Gunnar huffed and licked his lips, clearly not willing to concede his point just yet. “I do not trust her. She knew about the fire out on the lake, about the Pyre's weapon. You heard how she called out for you to turn the ship, even before the fire began raining down on our heads. She knows things. Things she has not shared with us or with Erik.”

Herleif listened to what his brother had to say, knowing that he spoke the truth as to the events that had happened out on the lake. Glancing back to where the remaining Lion Flame Knights stood, it was clear to him that seemed as lost and confused to the Peacekeeper's sudden absence as he was. “Or with the rest of her legion, I think.” Turning to Gunnar, he put a hand on his brother's shoulder and spoke firmly. “Find her, and the Conqueror too. Take some men if you have to, but bring them both back here. Do not kill them,” he commanded, holding his brother's gaze for a moment, “not unless it is absolutely necessary. They have both fought and shed blood with us today, so I will not pass judgment until I have heard an explanation.”

Gunnar frowned at his commands, but nodded to his brother. “Try to leave some cultists for me to kill, eh? No one makes songs about having to save Knights.” He grinned, and then headed off back through the crowd through the gate to chase down their wayward companions.

Herleif watched his younger brother go until he was out of sight, a tinge of worry in his heart for the Raider's safety. Gunnar was well practiced at taking care of himself, but it was still an older brother's duty to worry, even if it was just in private. Letting out a sigh, he looked back towards the barrack doors, and called out to those hacking them down. It was also the duty of a Jarl to give some encouragement to his men when needed. “Why the fuck is that door still standing? Did I sail with children to fight this battle! Break it down before the Gjallarhorn blows, if you please!”


	10. The Pilgrim

Things were surprisingly calm now as Priscilla and Coal ducked through an alley and out onto the open streets of Eitrivatnen. Dark smoke could be seen rising into the sky from where the trireme still burned, billowing up over the rooftops of the harbor warehouses and blotting out the sun to cast the street in shade. Far away the battle could be heard raging on, but for now Priscilla gave no thought to whether Herleif and his Vikings had made it past the barracks yet. She had her own mission to focus on now, and unlike the Jarl she didn't have an army to help back her up. All she had was one grumpy Conqueror. 

“We need to get out of sight,” Coal hissed as he ran after Priscilla down the long empty street. The place looked abandoned, with not a sign of a peasant or soldier in sight. Everyone had probably been evacuated prior to the attack, or worse, burned by the Pyre long ago for some drummed up act of heresy. 

Priscilla ran quickly, leading on despite Coal's protests. “This is the quickest way, and we must hurry. Herleif is sure to have noticed our absence by now,” she panted through her helmet, “If I were you, I'd save your breath and start thinking up a good excuse for when we regroup with the horde.”

Whether Coal took her words to heart was unclear, but regardless the two traveled in silence past the closed doors of warehouses and cluttered apartments, running by stalls that had been cleared of all their wares and valuables before the Vikings had a chance of getting their hands on them. In a way Priscilla was surprised that the Divine Pyre hadn't just burned the entire harbor to the ground, and let the Vikings waste their time shifting through the ash. It certainly seemed their style, but she supposed that even fanatics needed a place to live.

Further up the street the sound of quick footsteps could be heard echoing off the stone walls. Priscilla skidded to a halt and ducked behind a market stall, with Coal quickly dropping down next to her. Steadying her breath, Priscilla glanced around the corner of the stall, spotting a column of Pyre foot soldiers running quickly across the lane towards the lake. They all carried shields and spears, and a Conqueror in a fine gambeson studded with metal plates and full helmet fashioned like a skull ran beside them.

“He has better armor then me,” Coal complained over her shoulder, “This stuff Beaufort gave me when I got out isn't even half as good.” His armor, though strong, was most definitely worn by someone else before him. Or a few people even. A tattered tabard, rough pants with little protection, and an old set of pauldrons that left the rest of his arms completely bare. At least his helmet seemed to be in good condition, hiding his face so completely that Priscilla wasn't actually sure she would be able to pick Coal out of a crowd without it.

“Would you like to go ask if you swap outfits, or would you rather let them all pass by?” Priscilla asked.

Coal didn't answer, and so they remained where they were and waited until the foot soldiers were out of sight and all was clear. Without a word Priscilla sprang out of cover and began to take off down the street again. Taking a right down the direction the Pyre Conqueror and soldiers had come from, she glanced up and spotted a large domed building rising above the rest. “There, that's where he is supposed to be. Let's go.”

They ran on, across streets and through alley ways until they had reached the large building. Priscilla hugged the wall carefully, keeping a sharp eye for anyone who might be standing guard, and soon saw two figures at the building's entrance. A Lawbringer and a Warden, both looking off towards the direction of the battle that could be heard over the surrounding rooftops. “Come on. We can take them while their backs are turned,” Coal said, inching forward past her to move towards the Pyre Knights. Before he got to far though she grabbed him by his arm, pointing over to a forgotten cart that was perfect for reaching the lower levels of windows along the building's sides. She tapped her head at him, and Coal yanked his arm out of her grip as they both ran low to the cart.

It was easy to work open the wooden panel that covered the window with her dagger, and with practiced ease she slipped inside and crouched low until she was sure the room was empty. It looked like a storage room, full of crates piled high up towards the ceiling, and she was thankful that whoever had filled it had decided to leave the window unblocked. Coal fumbled his way in after her, but managed to stay silent enough that she didn't feel the need to scold him like a child. Stepping out of the room, she found herself in a long hallway that stretched to the left and right. The walls were lined with doors that showed no numbers, or had any distinctive mark that would set one out from the other. 

“Shit. Which one?” Coal asked when he came up behind her, turning to look one way down the hall and then the other, “He could be in any one of these rooms.”

“Patience,” Priscilla urged, “Keep a calm head, and think of another way to solve our problem other than just bashing down doors with your shield.” Turning to the right, she took a few steps and then stopped. She turned back again, headed down the left side of the hall and nodded. “Smell that? That sting in the air?”

Coal tilted his head up and gave a couple of loud sniffs. “Yeah. Smells just like out on the dock, just before that ship caught fire and blew up.”

“Right. And it's stronger in this direction. He's this way.” 

There was no one else in sight as they made their way down the hall, and with each step the acrid smell was growing stronger. Priscilla counted ten doors on either side before she bid Coal to stop, and pointed down to the bottom of the eleventh door to her right. There was a flickering of light coming through the space beneath the door, something the rest were clearly absent of.

Coal gripped his shield tight, and was about to drop the head of his flail when Priscilla stopped him. “Aren't we going in?” he asked in a hushed whisper just after the Peacekeeper put up a finger against her helmet for him to be quiet. 

“I am,” she said, pulling out a cloth and small vial of yellow venom from a pouch on her belt. She pulled a little cork from the bottle's top, then draped the cloth over it and turned the bottle up to let it soak. With that she capped the bottle and put it away, and proceeded to draw out her dagger and wipe the blade down with the wet cloth until it had a slick sheen over its metal surface. “You're staying here to guard the door. If anyone comes to get in, don't let them.”

Coal looked her up and down as if he was offended to come all this way just to stand guard. “What are you going to do? Won't he know that you're not with the Pyre as soon as he looks at you?” he asked, gesturing at her colors of red and white.

Priscilla put the cloth away and angled her dagger blade up behind her wrist, hiding the pommel in the grip of her hand. “I have a feeling he won't. I think this man sees only what he wants to see. He's proud, too proud for his own good. And that is why he has to die.” Then before Coal could protest further, she opened the door and slipped inside alone.

The room was lit by a dozen candles set upon wall fixtures about the place, giving it a rather cozy feel except for the sharp smell in the air that stung her nose. It was a large room, but the amount of clutter and equipment packed on tables and shelves that adorned the walls made it seem closed in. Priscilla saw stacks and stacks of noted paper and books all across the floor and stuck to the walls, and the ceiling was lined with dry herbs and flowers that hung upside down like withered bats. On the far wall were two open windows to try and air out the smell, and a long table topped with vials and beakers of all shapes and sizes. Most were full of bubbling liquid that flowed from one beaker to another. 

There was a noise off to her left, and Priscilla looked to see a lone man dressed in ornate dark robes and a small breastplate of dark metal. He was busy packing equipment into a crate packed with straw, unaware that she had entered the room. The side of the crate was marked by lettering she did not understand, but knew it belonged to the people of the Wu Lin.

“Li Qiang?” Priscilla asked quietly, naming the man who had been listed in her correspondence with Beaufort as her latest target, and causing the Wu Lin man to snap up and whirl around to look at her. He looked younger then she had thought, with dark intelligent eyes and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache around his lips. His head was topped by a small round hat, that rose up in the back like some kind of ornamentation, no doubt to show some form of rank among his own people.

Li Qiang's eyes narrowed as he looked at Priscilla, and his hand went to the table to hover over the hilt of a long single edged blade, the sword given to all Wu Lin warriors of the Zhanhu class. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice sharp with a foreign accent, and had the sense that he was one that felt comfortable giving commands to others.

“My commanders have bid me to come and fetch you,” Priscilla answered with a curt bow of her head, choosing not to give her name, “The Vikings are pushing deeper into the city. We must make our escape.”

The Zhanhu didn't move from where he was standing, and neither did he pull his hand away from the pommel of his sword. Priscilla waited for him to do something, to notice her colors and realize that she was not a member of the Divine Pyre come to escort him to safety, but that moment never came. “Have your leaders failed so completely in the defense of the harbor that they already flee in the face of contemptuous barbarians?” he spat, “Where are my guards?”

Priscilla imagined that he was used to low ranking Pyre soldiers crumbling under his wrath, but she stood unwavering against his anger. “They are still at their post keeping the watch, and I have my orders, sir. We must go.”

Li Qiang stared at her for a moment longer, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted to take her remark as an insult to his authority. Within this personal sanctuary in a foreign land he would wield what power he could with utter authority, and loathed the idea of anyone coming in and usurping that away from him. But a great clamor arose from outside the window that took his attention, and a savage howling could be heard from not far off. Li Qiang let out a hiss of aggravation, but abandoned his sword and went back to packing the crate full of equipment. “Very well. But don't touch anything! Much of this equipment is unique and created only in my homeland. Here among you less enlightened lot it is all priceless.” 

In a way Priscilla couldn't help but think that Li Qiang was just boasting now, but since he was distracted by his work she casually walked over to the piles of notes that were spaced about. Picking one up, she was dismayed to find it all written in Wu Lin script, and had no idea what the notes said. Even if it had been what she was looking for, she would have no way of knowing for sure. “What about these?” she asked the Zhanhu, “I can help. Surely you don't mind me packing some paper away?”

“Do not touch!” Li Qiang spat again, spinning around to glare at Priscilla angrily, “I do not know which of your commanders sent you, but I made it very clear when I arrived that this area was meant to be mine, for my work alone. Your hands are unworthy to touch it! I have spent my whole life on this endeavor, and I will not see it ruined now.”

Priscilla dropped the note she had been holding and crossed the room to the Zhanhu. He stiffened up before her, not having expected her to stand against him so easily. “Listen. Do you hear that?” she asked, letting him take note of the sound of battle happening outside the window in the harbor, “That is the sound of a blood crazed Viking horde coming to desecrate everything you have worked for with their unworthy, filthy, vile hands. Yourself included. So if I were you, I would care a little less about your esteemed work, and tell me how I can help so we can get the fuck out of here before they arrive. Clear?” Her fingers tightened around the grip of her dagger still hidden against her arm, and it was hard not to drive the blade into the Zhanhu's stomach right then. But killing Li Qiang wasn't the only part of her mission. She still needed his notes, his formula for the fire that the Pyre had used out on the lake. If she didn't secure them first, there was no telling where they would end up, or if they could be deciphered by anyone else.

Li Qiang remained still as stone as they stared at each other. The room was filled only with the sound raging from outside the window, but soon he raised his hand and pointed over to a table of small chests before speaking. “Those need to go in a larger crate that you can carry. I will need them to continue what was started here. The rest can be left for the barbarians.” The way he looked at Priscilla was as hard and full of disdain as ever, but the tone in his voice had softened a bit. As she had expected, all it had taken to rob the man of his bravado was to come at him with some of her own.

Slowly backing away, Priscilla turned and was careful to keep her dagger hidden from view. She stepped over to the table with the crates, bringing one closer. Taking a moment to glance over her shoulder, she saw that Li Qiang had gone back to packing, and so carefully opened the lid to examine what was inside. More notes, but this time not all of it was written just in Wu Lin characters. They had been translated so that the commanders of the Divine Pyre could understand them, and set their own alchemists and engineers to producing enough of the Zhanhu's fire to outfit all of their ships. “This is the formula for the weapon used out on the lake?” she asked, flipping through the notes and seeing that the rest were translated as well.

Li Qiang turned to look at her, but for once he didn't seem concerned that she was going through his things. “You were there? You saw the battle?” he asked quickly, a hint of excitement creeping up in his voice, “How did it go? The Vikings made landfall, but surely they took many casualties in the effort. Lost many ships?” It was a statement of fact, not a question that he asked her. In his mind there was no way that his creation could fail at its terrible task.

“Yes, I saw it,” Priscilla answered grimly, as the terrible memory was still fresh in her mind, “It was truly a wonder to behold, powerful and frightening. I would say that it was superior numbers that allowed the heathens to slip through, but surely even their gods suffered in pain as their men and ships burned upon the lake.”

Li Qiang let out a hearty laugh and gave a quick clap of his hands, turning towards his equipment and opening his arms out wide. “What joyous news! May the Emperor and his sniveling dog Sun Da wither and fade from history at my triumphant success! I told that fool Emperor that I would make him a weapon to lay waste to his enemies and conquer the world, but he would not listen. That snake Sun Da whispered in his ear, and bid the Emporer to cast me out because he was afraid of what I could accomplish. Oh how it tore at my soul to come crawling to these volcano worshipers, but it has been worth it in the end. My fire will burn and cleanse the world, and the Wu Lin will suffer for ever thinking that I was anything less then a genius!”

“So these are in fact the formula then?” Priscilla asked again.

“What?” Li Qiang snapped, confused as to how anyone would be anything less then struck dumb by the marvel that was his greatness. “Of course it is, you ignorant fool! Have you heard nothing I just said?”

Priscilla smiled, though it was hidden behind the face plate of her helm. “I think I've heard everything I needed to hear.” Snapping the lid of the chest shut, she turned and threw herself at Li Qiang. He let out a yelp as she slammed him back against the table, sending priceless equipment crashing to the floor as she brought her dagger up and stabbed it between his ribs. Once, twice, three times she drove the poisoned blade into him, between the dark plates of his armor, sending hot blood spraying across the floor as Li Qiang screamed in pain. She shoved him against the table again as she backed away, letting him drop to the floor in a heap. 

Li Qiang clutched his bloody side as he sat among his broken instruments, gasping to fill his lungs after all the air had been forced out of them. “You... you filthy... cretin...” he stammered, reaching up to grab the tables edge and try to pull himself up to his feet. He stumbled, hissing in pain as he clutched his side. “How dare you! Have you... no honor?”

“Honor is for fools. I find quick blades work better to get me what I want.” Priscilla answered calmly as she turned back to the chests of formula and notes. Just as the Zhanhu had suggested, she began placing the chests into a larger crate to carry out of the room. That was when a shout from outside caught her attention, and she looked towards the door and heard the sound of clashing metal echo from out in the hall. They had been discovered, and Coal would have to hold out until she had everything packed and ready to go. She would have to be quick, and turned back to the table to put the last few crates away so she could make her escape.

The long edge of a Zhanhu's blade cleaved down onto a chest just as she was about to pick it up, causing her to yelp in surprise as she jumped away. Whirling around, she saw Li Qiang back on his feet, sword in hand. His face was covered in sweat as the wound and poison began to take its toll, but for now he still very much alive. “You will find... that I am much harder to kill... than that,” he seethed at her through clenched teeth. 

Priscilla began to back up to give herself room as Li Qiang pointed his elegant sword at her. She drew her own sword free of its scabbard, taking up a low guard with her dagger raised. “Are you sure you would not rather spend your last moments in peace?” she asked, looking at how Li Qiang was still clutching his wounded side even as he held up his sword, “I'm afraid you are not long for this world, and that sword of yours is going to take two hands to wield if you wish to fight.”

A grimace flashed across Li Qiang's face, one of pain or perhaps anger, and slowly he brought his shaking hand away from his bleeding side, bringing it up to grasp tightly the lower half of his sword grip despite all the blood. “I will not lay down and die... like a dog for those who do not know their place before my greatness. I... am Li Qiang, of the Zhanhu!”

“Have it your way then.” Priscilla said, and rushed at Li Qiang again. Striking with her sword from the right, she quickly feinted and gave a flourish to distract her dagger stabbing from above. For all the pain that Li Qiang was in, he still had the clarity to recognize the misdirection and block the dagger as it swiped at his head. He countered with swing of his own, not having the room to jab at her while she was so close. At the last second she ducked under the blade, stabbing her dagger at his knee, but he spun his long sword around in an arc to deflect her blade from landing. She was caught in a bad position, crouched low near the ground and unable to be as nimble. Li Qiang saw this, flicking his sword up towards the ceiling and striking the pommel into her face to send her dropping back on her rear. 

“Die, you fool!” Li Qiang hissed, raising his sword above his head to bring it slicing down onto her. Priscilla lifted herself and rolled out of the way just as the sword crashed into the floor. She had escaped death, but was still vulnerable as long as she remained off of her feet. Luckily her saving grace came as Li Qiang raised his sword for another strike, but over extended himself as the wound to his side caused him to gasp in pain and drop his stance. Priscilla scrambled back, rolled up onto her feet and pressed the attack. Her foe was wounded, but had proven that as long as he was alive he was still a threat.

Li Qiang stumbled backwards, doing what he could to dodge Priscilla's sword and dagger, but he could only go so far before he bumped into the long table behind him. He screamed in rage, and took a wild swing at Priscilla with none of the skill that he had shown before. His strength was failing him, his stamina spent, and Priscilla easily dodged out of the way of his blade, stepping in once she was clear to stab her sword into his thigh. The sharp metal cut cleanly through flesh and muscle to pierce out the other side of his leg. Li Qiang screamed and dropped, no longer having the ability to stand and slumped back against the table until he landed on the floor.

Priscilla withdrew her weapon, letting it drip crimson as she stood up straight and kicked Li Qiang's weapon from his hand. It clattered across the floor out of reach. Li Qiang watched it go, his fingers still twitching from where he had just gripped the pommel in his hand. Even in his weak state Priscilla could still see the fire in his eyes, the hate, an unflinching denial that this was in fact the end. He slowly turned his gaze up to her, face pale and covered with sweat from the poison coursing through his veins. A trickle of blood rolled down from within his nose until it slipped into his mustache and over his lips. “W-why...?” he gasped out, unable to understand why his dream of fame and glory was coming to an end in some unimportant room and at the hands of a faceless assassin without honor.

“Like I said, I have my orders,” Priscilla answered, standing above Li Qiang now and waiting to see the light leave his eyes. She could still hear the fighting going on outside the door in the hall, but she would not turn her back on the Zhanhu again until she knew for certain that he was dead. It would have been easy to end it with another cut across his throat, or a stab into his skull, but after all the talk he had done she was happy just to watch and listen to him choke on his own blood. “Did you not know, in all of your infinite wisdom? When great men try to burn as brightly as the sun, there are always others who will seek to snuff him out.”

Li Qiang gave a harsh cough, splattering bloody spittle all over his chin and chest. He took a wheezing breath and tried to push himself up from the floor, only to fall back again. The look of pain on his face, it was like he was wracked more by humiliation then actual pain. He slumped back against the table, panting as he draped an arm across himself to clutch at his wounded side. 

“Your treachery... may have robbed me... of my rightful glory, assassin,” he said, making his last words bite with his dying breaths, staring with a fiery hatred at his killer, “but know... that my work will never rest in the hands... of an unworthy... worm!”

All too late did Priscilla realize that Li Qiang wasn't pressing his hand to his side, but was instead reaching bloody fingers into a pouch hanging from his belt. With his last ounce of strength he hurled something unseen up towards the candles that hung over the table where the notes and formula sat. Priscilla saw what looked to be a black needle soar through the air and into the flickering flame with incredible accuracy, and everything became a blinding flash as the needle sparked and exploded before her eyes. 

For a brief moment she was reminded of watching colorful fireworks flash and burst over the grand towers of Beaufort as a child. Back when her mother and father would take her to the spring festivals, and she would hold their hands as they all watched the delightful and dazzling lights burst and flicker, like glittering jewels in the night sky. It had been years since she had thought of such things, and it made her stomach twist now to think that it was only in the face of death that she would look back fondly on simpler times.

Now there was nothing dazzling or delightful about the soft candle light becoming a raging inferno through Wu Lin sorcery. Jumping backwards, she watched as fire flew outwards from the candle fixture, splashing against tables, notes and boxes like water upon rocks. Everything the fire touched instantly ignited, until half the room was burning as bright like a pyre, smoke billowing towards the open windows, and all while the needle in the candle was still sparking with deadly power. 

“No!” Priscilla shouted, having to shield her eyes from the hot blaze, but knew that she had to do something to save the formula before they were all lost. The loose paper stacked around the table instantly blackened and burned to ash, but with any luck the wooden chests would at least protect the formula long enough to give her a chance to save them. The fire was spreading quickly, and it burned hot enough to make her eyes water beneath her helmet anytime she glanced at the bright flames. Summoning her courage, she took a breath to protect her lungs from the heat and then dashed forward into the fire, making a mad grab for the crate that she had been packing and pulled it off the table and onto the stone floor. It was already well engulfed by flame, and she hastily pulled her torn piece of tabard from around the neck and patted it over the chest to smother the flames.

To her dismay though, much of what was inside already looked to be charred and blackened, the pages of parchment and scrolls already brittle and crinkled. The precious translations had become faded or all together illegible, but as Priscilla dug through the pages she found some towards the bottom of the crate that were in better condition. She pulled them out of the smoking crate, and when she knew they would not crumble under her touch she folded them up and stuck them into a pouch on her belt. Then she took hold of her dagger again and rounded on Li Qiang, fully intent on making his last moments as painful as possible for the trouble he had caused.

“You arrogant bastard!” she snarled, but she soon realized that her insult was meaningless as she looked over Li Qiang's unmoving body. The Zhanhu had dealt with her treachery with one last trick of his own, one last weapon of his own creation, and then had slipped from this world with no more boasts to give. His eyes remained open, but lifeless, and Priscilla knew that he was dead. 

Muttering another curse, Priscilla looked over towards the spreading fire and wondered if she should try to grab anything else that might have been worth something to her superiors. Another violent spark from the hellish candle made her think twice about it though, so instead she gripped her sword and dagger and made a dash for the door, hearing that Coal was still in the middle of dealing with their uninvited guests. 

She burst out of the door and back into the hallway, and found the Conqueror's flail on the floor absent it's wielder. Looking up, her heart dropped into her stomach as she spotted Coal across the hall fighting against a purple and gold Warden that had grappled him from behind, and had the deadly blade of his longsword tight across Coal's neck and threatening to take his head. She realized that it was the Warden who had been guarding the front entrance, but there was no sign of the Lawbringer around.

Coal was struggling to get the Warden off of him, but managed to look over and see that she had returned from her business with their target. “Priscilla... look out!” he grunted, forcing the words out as the Warden's weapon pressed against his throat.

Priscilla stiffened and quickly dropped into a defensive stance, but a flash of movement to her right soon alerted her to the source of his warning. Turning, she expected to see the Lawbringer from earlier coming at her with poleaxe in hand, but instead the image of a golden eagle wreathed in flame, the very symbol of the Divine Pyre, was rushing at her face. 

The decorated shield hit her like a ship smashing against a rocky shore with the weight of the person behind it, and Priscilla flew off of her feet and fell to the ground hard on her shoulder. Her grip on her dagger failed, and it fell from her hand and clattered away, leaving her just with her narrow sword which she tried to bring up against whoever it was that that attacked her. But a heavy leather boot slammed down upon her wrist, pinning it to the ground and making her howl in pain, and she looked up to see the skull faced Conqueror that they had seen on the street earlier. He stood up above her, giving a wicked laugh that gave a hollow echo beneath his skull helm, but to her surprise, neither his diamond shaped shield or the metal ball of his flail came crashing down to cave in her head. Instead he lifted his boot and kicked it hard into her ribs, making her wheeze as the wind was driven from her, and then slammed his foot back down onto her chest to keep her pinned.

That was when she heard the wicked voice of the large figure coming closer with heavy clanking of armor echoing down the hall. “Hold her steady now. Wouldn't want to miss and chop off your leg, eh?” laughed the black armored Lawbringer, coming into view over Priscilla and looking down at her like she was a sick dog that needed to be put out of its misery.

One look at the sharp poleaxe in the Lawbringer's hand was all it took for Priscilla to begin fighting again. Winded as she was though from that kick to her ribs, she was too weak to do anything with her sword that the Conqueror wouldn't see coming and block with his shield, and so she did whatever she could to writhe and press against the man's weight to dislodge his boot. But the Conqueror just looked down at her and laughed again, lifting his boot for a brief moment only to slam it back down and make her cry out in pain. “She's a squirmer, alright,” he said, the evil smile he wore clear in the sound of his voice, “just like all Peacekeepers. Small, nimble, and easy to fucking break!” His foot slammed down on her again, and again, and again, until Priscilla thought that her heart would burst within her rib cage before the Lawbringer's axe ever met her neck.

“Alright! Alright! Enough of your fun. Now get out of the way,” the Lawbringer chastised, physically pushing the mad Conqueror back a bit just so he could get a chance of killing the Peacekeeper like he wanted. Taking his poleaxe in both hands, he braced his feet and then lowered the curved blade down across Priscilla's throat, taking the time to make a show of aiming his cut.

Coal screamed roughly against the blade at his throat, jabbing his elbow back into the Warden's ribs, but his captor weathered through the blows. “Bastards! Yellow livered shite eaters!” He howled, going so far as to grab the sharp sword at his neck and try and pull it away. Dark blood began to pool between his fingers as the blade cut through his gloves and into his skin, but still he didn't stop struggling, or hurling curses at his foes. “Two of you to kill one woman? You're all cowards! Face me like fucking men, and I'll show you why your fathers should have just spilled you into the dirt!”

“Oh no, you're going to stay right here and watch,” laughed the Pyre Warden in Coal's ear, pulling his sword up tighter against his throat to silence him, “Her turn first, and then yours. Just like all you filthy heretics deserve. We're going to kill all of you, you hear me?” The eagerness in his voice spoke to his delight in the suffering of others, and he twisted Coal around so that he would have no choice but to watch as the Lawbringer took Priscilla's head, “You've already lost, and the world is now ours to burn!” How such a man could have worked his way up to the noble position of Warden was a sad mystery, but he was exactly the type to be attracted to the radical and violent ways of the Divine Pyre as they spread their wickedness across the land. 

Priscilla never stopped fighting, never stopped clawing at the Conqueror's boot, or kicking out her legs to throw off his weight. But even with all of that effort, it never stopped the Lawbringer from raising his axe up into the air, or stopped her eyes squeezing shut as she thought that this might be her end. This wasn't how she wanted it to happen. 

Not here. Not for this cause. 

She knew it was unfair, given that she had just done the same thing to Li Qiang, whose lifeless body now burned in some unmarked storage room instead of enjoying the adoration of his peers. It wasn't fair, but it was the truth. Not that she would ever admit it openly before the end though. She couldn't give these Pyre bastards the satisfaction. 

“May the fiery pits of Hell cleanse your soul forevermore, heretic,” the Lawbringer announced, ushering in the moment of her doom. His poleaxe gave a slight sway in the air as he held it above his head, and he put all of his strength into the swing as he brought it rushing down for Priscilla's neck. Suddenly there was the great stomping of feet coming off from down the hall, and Priscilla saw the Lawbringer pull up his poleaxe short, that metal helmet turning to look at something she couldn't see.

“Odin!” Gunnar shouted with all the breath in his lungs as he came rushing at the Lawbringer, calling out for the one eyed god to witness him as he lowered his shoulders and charged like a raging bull. He slammed into the Lawbringer and took him off of his feet, then lifted himself upright and flipped the armored Knight up into the air. The giant Knight tumbled ass over head, and landed with a great crash of clanking armor upon his back. 

The thud with which he landed was so great that the Conqueror standing on top of Priscilla lost his footing, giving the small, nimble, and very angry Peacekeeper the ability to slip free and kick his other leg out from under him. The Conqueror fell backwards, but Priscilla was too winded to press the attack. Instead she retreated back, rolling up onto one knee and making a grab for her fallen dagger before rising to her feet.

Gunnar stopped his charge and pivoted on one foot, bringing his axe up over head and swinging it down into the Pyre Knight's chest before he got the wind back into his lungs and get up again. The shining blade of the Dane axe chopped into the Lawbringer's breastplate, cleaving metal and driving through mail, cloth, muscle and bone. The Lawbringer yelled out with a sharp cry of pain that quickly turned into a wet gurgle. Gunnar laughed, and ripped his axe free of the dead man in a spray of gore and blood.

The sudden and deadly appearance of the Viking Raider was enough to distract the Pyre Warden long enough for Coal to pull the longsword away from his neck, and smack his head back into the Warden's helmet. There was a muffled grunt, and Coal felt the Warden's grip on the sword loosen. That was all he needed to pull the weapon away for himself, shoving the Warden away with a push of his shoulders, and spun around to spear the point of the sword through his enemy's gut. Hot blood spilled out over his hands as he drove the blade deep, and Coal growled in anger as he watched the Warden double over and die upon his own sword.

He would have liked to make it last, to see the Pyre bastard suffer. A twist of the blade to make him scream, or to let him bleed out slowly while holding his guts in. It was more than the Warden deserved, knowing what the Pyre had done to northern Ashfeld in the absence of law and order. It would have been justice, but Coal knew that not all who had done wrong received the sentence they deserved. So instead he angled the blade upward inside of the Warden, spearing his vital organs to help speed his way to whatever damnation awaited him in the next life. He tossed the Warden away with a sound of disgust, letting him fall in a heap upon the floor, already forgotten as Coal turned his attention to the other Conqueror getting back up onto his feet.

Coal ran at the Pyre Conqueror, for his flail still lay by the door near where the man stood. His shield would protect him, but if he hoped to take on this warrior of his own order, then he would need that weapon in his hand to win. He saw the skull helmet give a shake as the Conqueror cleared his head, and then their eyes met in a moment of clarity where each man knew only one of them would be walking away from this meeting. Coal charged on, and as the Pyre Knight whipped up his own flail to strike, Coal ducked under the metal ball and chain, hearing it rush past him as he hit the ground and rolled over to his dropped flail. His fingers curled around the wooden shaft, and as he got up to his feet he saw the swing from his enemy coming at him with deadly force. Coal hunkered down behind his shield, and when he felt the force of the contact between wood and metal he knocked the weapon away. Roaring like a god of war, he swung the heavy ball of his own flail upward with a powerful underhanded swing. The Pyre Conqueror had been knocked off balance by Coal's shield, and the skull face Knight was helpless to block the incoming attack as he caught the spiked flail just under his chin.

Coal felt the impact of metal against bone reverberate up his arm, and then he never stopped swinging. In a flurry of movement, he brought his flail back and forth across his enemy's head, until the skull shaped helmet scarcely resembled a human head at all. The Pyre Conqueror's face was left a mangled wreck of metal and glistening blood by Coal's flail, but still he was not done. Coal might think that he owed Beaufort very little after the years they had cast him away forgotten in a cell, but he was not one to sit idle and watch as the one person who was supposed to have his back was beaten and nearly killed right before his eyes. Whipping his flail around over his head, he caught the Conqueror in the side of the face, and sent him reeling like a spinning top.

The Pyre Conqueror whirled drunkenly on his feet, and spun around backwards straight into Gunnar's axe. The Raider had been waiting for him, and slammed his weapon straight into the Conqueror's stomach, forcing the Knight up off his feet with the power of the blow. Gunnar kept his momentum going strong, picking the Pyre Knight up and spinning him around on the blade of his axe, until he suddenly stopped with a jerk and sent the bloodied man flying off down the hall like a discarded doll. Gunnar roared with laughter to see him go, watching until the man crashed to the stone floor, and went still.

“Aah! What a fight! Too bad there was no one here to fucking see it!” Gunnar shouted, stomping a foot in frustration despite the gleeful smile spread across his lips, “How is a man supposed to be put into songs and legends if the only ones to witness him are a pair of half witted Knights too weak to save themselves? This is no way to fight a war.”

Coal flashed the Raider an angry glare, having no time for his boasting or ego stroking, but doubtless the Viking did not see the look from beneath Coal's helmet. “Are you alright?” Coal asked, looking to Priscilla now. He was panting hard, shoulders heaving as the battle rage still clung to him, but his voice was thick with concern.

Priscilla didn't answer him at first. Even though she still gripped her dagger in her hand, she rubbed at her bruised chest and collarbone with her closed fist, feeling like it would be ages before she could breathe properly again. “I'm fine,” she said quietly, swallowing hard as she pushed down the feeling of the Lawbringer's axe against her throat and willed herself to bury the memory. She was alive, and the Pyre Knights were all dead. There was no point now in thinking about what could have been. Instead she forced herself to focus on what was important, sheathing her blades and taking the opportunity to touch the pouch at her hip that contained the Zhanhu's formula. “I'm good. We should get moving before more arrive. Someone might have heard all of that.”

“You want to go?” Gunnar asked mockingly, leaning forward and cocking his head like he hadn't heard Priscilla properly, “But I have only just arrived. And you two seemed so eager to run off by yourselves that I thought you must be on some great adventure, and I did not want to be left behind.” He planted the end of his long axe against the ground, and leaned forward against it as he looked between the smaller Conqueror and Peacekeeper. “So please, be so kind as to tell me what in Hel's wicked name you two morons are doing here away from the rest of the fighting? In case you had forgotten, you're supposed to be guiding my brother to the center of the harbor!”

Priscilla didn't bother to look at Gunnar as he spoke. Her gaze was on the black armored Lawbringer who lay dead in a pool of dark blood. But Coal bristled under the Raider's question. “It is none of your concern, Viking. If we wanted to include you in our secret adventures, we would have asked.”

Gunnar dropped his head and gave it a shake before looking at the pair of Knights again. Standing up straight, he brought up his axe behind his head and let the long haft rest across his shoulders. “And does the fire have anything to do with these secrets that you're hiding? Something you would rather Herleif and the other Jarls not see?” He gave a nod of his head towards one of the doors in the hall, bringing Coal's attention to the black smoke curling from the crack above the floor. “I saw the plume coming from one of the windows outside. You are lucky that I did, or else our dear Peacekeeper here would be even smaller by a head.”

Coal wanted to kick himself for playing into Gunnar's games, and in the process giving away more than he should. It was such a little slip, but still the barbarian had pieced more together about what he and Priscilla were doing then he would have thought. “If your are expecting us to thank you, you would have better luck asking the Divine Pyre to surrender peacefully.” Coal growled.

That cocky grin appeared on Gunnar's lips again, and his eyes narrowed beneath his helmet. “I expect answers, my friend. Now, you can either tell me here, or you can answer to the Jarls once the harbor is taken. I can already guess as to what Ivar the Red will ask once he learns of this. He will ask Erik why waste time trying to sort through lies, when we can just carve the eagle into your backs instead.”

“We were here for him,” Priscilla snapped, pointing down at the dead Lawbringer that she had been staring at for so long. Gunnar and Coal were both so surprised by her sudden outburst that neither of them could speak for a moment, but instead looked down at the Lawbringer to which Priscilla pointed and then back at her. Coal took a step back from the limp body, as if there was now something about it that he wasn't aware of.

“And who is he?” Gunnar asked, not sounding totally convinced by this news, “The King of Ashfeld perhaps? Or perhaps he was the god Loki, come in disguise to play tricks and make a mess of your schemes? Seems like just another cultist to me.”

Priscilla looked at Gunnar for a long moment, and then her shoulder's slumped somehow admitting defeat. “Every cultist was once someone else, before the Pyre came. This one was my brother,” she said quietly, her fits curling into tight balls at her side.

This caused the air to slip from Gunnar's sails for a moment. The grin he wore quickly vanished, and suddenly he didn't seem to stand so tall and imposing. “Your brother?” he answered back, that revelation being one of the last things he had been expecting.

Coal was just as surprised as the Raider was to hear this, only he kept that information to himself and did his best to keep his body calm and unflinching. If Priscilla had a tale to weave, then he was going to keep his mouth shut and leave her to her craft.

“Yes. My older brother, Gerard,” Priscilla said, looking back down at the Lawbringer who was supposedly her kin, “Not that I see it being any of your business, but he joined with the Divine Pyre once the cult began to spread throughout the north. I do not know why he joined, or how they were able to sink their wickedness into his mind and ruin everything that was good in him, but he was lost to my family before we could even try to save him.” Her head snapped back up to look at Gunnar, and her whole body went stiff as if she meant to take him down like a mighty oak. “And we did, Raider, we did try to save him! Or at least my parent's did. I was away on assignment when it happened, but I received the news not long after the fact. He killed them. Our parents. They were only trying to help him, to get him to see sense, and he butchered them like animals! Like criminals meant for the Lawbringer's block!”

She was shaking now, and even Coal had to admit that her performance was impressive. Given all that had happened with the Divine Pyre's rise to power, it was not far off to imagine that her story was indeed truth. It had after all happened to many families across the north, and Priscilla might have well taken the story from any one of them to fool Gunnar. To call her a liar would be to laugh at the suffering of thousands of innocent people and families, and Coal doubted that a bloodthirsty Viking could even be that cruel. Or at least he hoped so, for the sake of their mission.

Priscilla was not done yet selling her story, and she took a step closer to Gunnar, craning her neck up at him as she bit with steel in her voice. “I was told that later he displayed their heads in the village square, where the Pyre was dealing with all of those they found unworthy of the faith. Do you know what it was that he said, when he put their heads on stakes and let my mother and father rot in the sun?” Her voice trembled as she spoke, actually trembled, as if she were shedding real tears now beneath her helmet, “He said, 'Let the souls of these heretics burn, and feed the power of the holy mountain of fire. And let the world be better for it'. That is what my brother said, and I swore then that I would find him one day I would find him, and kill him for what he had done.”

Gunnar held his gaze on Priscilla all through her story, and he did not say a word until she was done. His mouth was pressed into a hard line beneath his beard, his eyes little more then slits as he tried to find any hole or weakness in her tale. Dropping his axe from his shoulders, he slowly stroked the braid of his beard, the corners of his lips twitching before he spoke. “I heard him call you a heretic as I approached. He seemed to care little to have his sister's neck beneath his axe.”

“We are all heretics in their eyes.” Priscilla hissed, “There is no middle ground with these fanatics, no thought for the ways of others. You are either with them, or you are an enemy to be put down. You can not reason with them, not out of love, or a family's bond, or friendship. They are nothing but damned souls worshiping their God forsaken mountain, and they deserve nothing but a swift blade to put them down before their madness spreads further to destroy more lives.”

This was all true, and was part of the reason that they were all here fighting for the harbor in the first place. Or at least it could be said for what remained of the Lion Flame Legion. For the Vikings of Valkenheim, they were here for plunder and riches, and the chance to spill some blood for their savage gods. Coal wondered if he and Priscilla could say that they belonged to either group, as the ones they would answered to when this was all over belonged to neither.

“But what of the fire?” Gunnar asked, trying to work out the connection between the burning room and the fight in the hall in his mind, “How did that get started?”

Priscilla knew better then to follow along with the Raider's line of questions, and instead turned things back around against him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Look, I am sorry that we left, but I had business to deal with before we look to the volcano and the Walled City. I vowed to kill my brother for his crimes, and there was nothing that was going to stop me. Not you, not your brother, and sure as shit not some threat of having my back split open. I waited long enough for my revenge, and honestly I couldn't give two licks of a pigs ass as to what you and your brother think of it.”

Gunnar blinked in surprised, but wouldn't be deterred so easily by a foul quip. “How did the fire start? What was in that room?” He growled, pointing over to the smoke still wafting out into the hall.

“Her family's things. Or what was left of them,” Coal interjected, feeling like he should say something to make himself at least look somewhat included in Priscilla's plans. “Everything that Gerard had stolen from her. We found the room before the fight broke out. She wanted to get rid of it.” he said, bowing his head a bit as if feeling a sense of reverence about such a noble decision. In truth he had no idea what had happened to start the flames burning inside the room, but he trusted that Gunnar wasn't about to go walking in to investigate himself. The hall was beginning to get hot from the fire behind the door, so the body of the target within had most likely burned to ash by now and was no longer of any consequence. “We need to get moving, before the fire burns down the door and we have a new problem on our hands.”

Gunnar glowered at Coal, clearly wanting to argue the point more, but knew that he would gain no ground by himself against the both of them. They would each hold firm to the the story that they had told, and unless Gunnar had the ability to walk through flames or had the power to speak to the dead, there was nothing he could do to prove them wrong. He turned his stony gaze back on Priscilla, who had never turned away from him since their argument had begun. The corner's of his lips twitched again, and for the briefest of moments he seemed to squirm with the awkwardness of a youth witnessing death for the first time.

“To kill a brother must be no easy thing,” he said calmly. His eyes seemed to lose a bit of their coldness, and perhaps he was thinking of his own brother as he spoke, though it did not last. “But if you are finished living in the past then perhaps you would care to help us win the battle today. Or have you forgotten your purpose here among my brother's crew?”

“Nothing would please me more, Gunnar,” Priscilla said, her voice a mix of velvet and steel. She turned away from the Raider then, stepping over the dead Pyre Lawbringer without giving it another look. 

Coal and Gunnar were left alone watching her go, and after a moment of silence between them the Raider looked to the Conqueror and asked, “Do you have family lurking somewhere around here too?”

“Nope. All dead.” Coal said with a shake of his head, then turned to hurry off after Priscilla.

Gunnar nodded, giving one last look around at the bodies of the dead Pyre Knights and at the door that was beginning to burn with the flames licking from the other side. “Thank the gods,” he mumbled, and ran after them to rejoin the battle that could still be heard off in the distance.


	11. Into the City

“Shield wall!” Herleif roared as another volley of arrows hissed into the air and fell upon the Vikings like rain. He raised his shield along with those next to him, laying one over the other as they stood shoulder to shoulder and created a protective barrier of wood, metal and stretched hide. He could hear the arrows streaming down on top of them now, just before they began to thunk into shields and clatter off stone walls, or sink into anyone too slow to bring up their arm in time. 

It had been many winters since the last time he had been in a fight like this, scarcely remembering a raid that had been so bloody. Even the skirmish during that past winter against Ivar's men had been a drop of blood in the sacrificial bowl beneath a bull's neck compared to this. The Divine Pyre was well dug into the streets and alleyways that led deeper into Eitrivatnen from the docks, making the Viking advance slow going and bloody. 

Currently he and his warriors had been stopped at a crossroads where the Pyre had built up a barricade on the street that led on to the rendezvous point with Jarls Erik and Ivar. The Knight cultists were safe behind their constructed wall, while archers had taken up positions in the buildings to either side, shooting arrows into the streets below. It had been an ambush, with the Pyre luring Herleif and his warriors in only to rain death down upon them from above. Dozens of warriors had run to the barricade, axes and swords in hand ready to hack down the wall that stood in their path, but they were quickly cut down in the open street, peppered with arrows or torn apart by small hand bombs thrown into their ranks by the Knights.

Herleif had ordered the shield wall to be made on the opposite end of street facing the enemy, filling the lane from wall to wall in the shade of the surrounding buildings, with shields protecting their front and their heads from hissing arrows. The horde of Vikings behind him slowed to a halt, and warriors began to spread out and find cover behind market stalls or within sheltered doorways, or otherwise stood out in the street with a shield over their head and a prayer to the gods on their lips that no arrow would find it's way into their neck. What archers Herleif had with him began to loose their own arrows at the enemy, hoping to thin their ranks as much as possible, or land a shot into one of the windows and eliminate some of the threat from above.

More bombs flew from the Knight's position, but most fell short of reaching the other side of the street, landing in the middle of the crossroad instead and mutilating the dead bodies that already lay there. Those explosives that did make it though had Herleif shouting for his warriors to move back out of range, packing in against those behind them and leaving the wounded and the dying where they lay.

Herleif spat a curse as he eyed the enemy position over the rim of his shield, and then slid out of the wall to let another Warlord take his place. He pushed his way back through the crowd, until he spotted the Lion Flame Warden that he had been relying on as a guide in Priscilla's absence. “Are you sure this is the way to reach the city's center? There must be another path around?” he asked loudly, having to raise his voice over the blasting of bombs and the roar of challenge shouted at the Pyre Knights by his own warriors. 

The Warden, who's name Herleif had learned was Marcelo, craned his head up to look out between the buildings and into the noon day sun. “Yes, this is the way we must go,” he called back, but his confidence faltered when he caught the icy look in Herleif's was giving him, “I... I think.”

“You think?” Herleif roared, eyes flashing angrily, rushing at Marcelo and slamming him up against a wall with his shield. He got right into the man's face and snarled, baring his teeth beneath the bristles of his dark brown beard. “Arrows fall down on our heads like hail while my men lay dead in the street, and you think that we are heading the right way? You know what I think, Marcelo? I think that I should let my Shaman gut you, and see if the gods can give us better directions among your entrails!”

Marcelo shrank back beneath the shield pressing against him, pulling at the rim as Herleif began to push it up under his jaw. “I do not know this city, my lord!” he said quickly, eyes wide in the holes of his helmet, “I have only been here once before, long ago! My station was to the west, in Sow Mesa!”

Growling in frustration, Herleif pulled his shield away and let Marcelo go, not even looking at how the Knight slumped back against the wall in fear. “Useless,” he muttered under his breath, and then called out for Skuld over the battle din. The tall Valkyrie shouldered her way to him, her ram horned helmet giving her the look of a war goddess among the men around her. “Take Ragnar, Ragna, and as many spear men as you need to find us away around this barricade,” he said to her, pointing a finger as if he was giving orders to his overzealous brother instead. But he had fought alongside Skuld enough now to know that she always kept a level head during a battle, and so dropped his hand and nodded out towards the open street. “Or better yet, find a way to get into those buildings, and slaughter every one of those arrow shooting bastards that you can.”

Skuld gave a nod in understanding, and was about to go on her way when she stopped and pointed with her spear back down the street that was crowded with Bilrost warriors. Herleif turned to look at what she had seen, and felt his blood grow hot as he spotted Priscilla and Coal making their way to him with Gunnar following behind. “Where in Helheim's frozen pits have you been?” he spat angrily, watching as the small Peacekeeper got up onto a crate and surveyed the standstill up ahead without even a hint of a greeting.

“If we double back to the last cross street, we can find stairs that lead up to a balcony and a hanging garden. This will give us access to the rooftops and we can attack those archers from above.” Priscilla said, ignoring Herleif's question entirely. 

Herleif squeezed the grip of his sword and pointed it up at Priscilla, clearly in no mood to be ignored or played for a fool. “You answer me when I address you, Knight. I have had enough of your legion's incompetence. Nothing but gibbering swine and no backbone,” he moved his sword through the air to point back at Marcelo, who stiffened and froze to have the angry Warlord's attention back on him. “We have gained little ground without you here, and I will see that you are held accountable when this fight is over.”

Priscilla jumped down from her perch, waving away some of the dust away that plumed up as her feet hit the cobblestones. “I am here now, and the longer we stand here talking the longer it takes us to regroup with the other Jarls. Shall we get to work, or would you rather open up some of these market stalls and start selling the armor off your backs?”

Herleif fumed at the blatant disrespect the Peacekeeper gave him, and even Skuld took a step away from him as he scowled and struggled to contain his anger. He looked to Gunnar for some kind of support, but the big Raider just frowned and shrugged his broad shoulders. Whatever Priscilla and Coal had been up to, it would have to wait until the problem at hand was dealt with. “Fenrir take us all! Go! See that it is done,” he snarled at last. He looked at Skuld again, giving a jerk of his head in the direction of the barricade. “Go with her, and take the Berserkers with you. We will attack on your signal. And make sure this one doesn't run off again,” he said, glaring over at Priscilla. 

Skuld nodded, and headed off into the horde to find the twins Ragna and Ragnar and inform them of the plan. Priscilla and Coal moved to go with her, but Herleif thrust out his sword and blocked their path to issue one last warning before they left. “Do not cross me, Peacekeeper. There will be no safe haven for you in these lands if you do,” he growled at her.

Priscilla said nothing, but touched two of her fingers to her hood in a quick salute before slipping off into the crowd with Coal following closely behind. Once they were out of sight, Herleif hung his head and sighed in frustration, then looked back up at Gunnar. “What was all that about?” he asked.

“Family business. The bloody kind,” Gunnar said with a frown, knowing that answer was hardly worth anything to his brother in the middle of all this fighting and chaos. It was all he could give though, as the only other option would have been bringing Herleif their heads instead.

“Family business? And what exactly does that mean?” Herleif groaned, but his attention was quickly stolen away as he caught sight of Marcelo trying to sneak off and follow after Priscilla and Coal. No doubt after the threats Herleif had made about communing with the gods through his insides, the Warden was eager to be back under the command of a fellow Knight of his own legion rather then that of a bloody savage. “Whoa there, Marcelo! Just where do you think you are running off to?” he called out, causing the Knight to flinch and stop short in his tracks, “We still have a barricade to take down, and more of these cultist bastards to kill. You will miss out on all the fun!”

Marcelo looked back between the Warlord and the Raider who both had him frozen under their gaze, his body still half turned in the hope that he might be able to somehow escape down the street. “I... I was going to rally the other Lion Flame Knights and join with Priscilla, my lord. Surely she will need our support for the attack?” he said meekly, his voice barely heard over the commotion echoing off the building walls.

Gunnar grinned as he stepped up to the Warden and threw one big arm around his shoulder, squeezing him tight and causing his armor to clink and clatter. “Ha! You want to join those sneaks and shadows to attack from the rear? That kind of thinking will get you in trouble with Ragnar, my friend. No, best you stay here and help us take these nithing shits head on. Like true warriors worthy of the Allfather's hall!”

Herleif couldn't help but grin a little as he saw Marcelo shrink under Gunnar's jest, and the Knight looked like he would rather take on a hundred Pyre warriors alone then spend anymore time in the Raider's clutches. “Come on then, back to the line. We must be ready for Skuld's signal.”

“But my lord, I do not have a shield for the wall,” Marcelo said quickly in a last ditch effort to see himself spared from the charge. 

“We can share mine then, and the Skalds will sing forevermore about the day a Viking and a Knight stood side by side in the shield wall and charged at their hated enemy together under a hail of arrows,” Herleif snapped, his patience finally having run dry. Gunnar gave another laugh, and hauled Marcelo along so that the three pushed their way through the crowd and back to the shield wall that was keeping death at bay.

“Your wives will be glad once we have killed you all, for they will see that real men have finally come to warm their beds where you have been nothing but bitter disappointments!” Gunnar shouted over the wall of shields, earning a chorus of laughter to rise up from the Bilrost Vikings surrounding him. He had been going on for a good while now, shouting obscenities and curses at the Pyre Knights while Skuld, Priscilla and the others headed around the buildings to scale the the buildings and dash over rooftops. They needed time though, and Gunnar's creative imagination provided the perfect distraction. Looking to further drive home the insult, Gunnar shouldered his way through the shield wall and out into the open, standing in plain view of the Pyre Knights without fear. “I'll enjoy listening to your screams today, but the cries of pleasure your women make as I rut them will please me even more!” Then he held out his axe in front of him and thrust his hips forward, repeating the motion again and again as he grunted like a beast.

The twang of a dozen bow strings loosing their arrows were heard from within the dark windows across the street, and Gunnar quickly dove back through the gap made for him in the shield wall just before those arrows struck the exact spot that he had been standing. More laughter erupted up from the Viking ranks, and Herleif glared at his brother where he had landed upon the ground. “Are you done having your fun, you mad fuck?” he muttered, feeling Marcelo press up against him as they were both squeezed within the tight line of shields. 

“What? Just had to let them know what was at stake here. It is only fair,” Gunnar grinned, getting back up to his feet and dusting himself off. 

Herleif shook his head, trying his best not to grin at his brother's antics. “Hurry up and get back into line. We go as soon as Skuld gives the signal.”

“Look my lord. There, up on the rooftops,” Marcelo hissed, his voice low as if he was afraid of giving their plan away to the enemy across the street. Herleif glanced up over the rim of his shield to where Marcelo was pointing, and spotted Skuld and Priscilla moving low from one rooftop to the other with the rest following behind them. The city buildings here were so close together that except for the main streets it was easy to jump the narrow alley ways and move above the enemy out of sight. 

Herleif watched as the group made their way to the first building full of archers, the one standing to his right. Skuld jumped down onto a balcony and then ducked through the swaying curtains of an open doorway, leading the surprise attack with Priscilla in toe. Coal and the twin Berserkers followed after, along with a group of ten spear men bringing up the rear. “Alright, get ready,” Herleif hissed just as he began to hear the first signs of fighting going on inside the building. He could see some of the Pyre Knights behind the barricade looking up as well, alerted to the commotion going on just above their heads. “Gunnar, keep their attention. We need to give them as much time as we can.” Herleif said quickly.

Gunnar leaned up on top the tightly packed line of warriors in front of him, ignoring their groans and glares of annoyance waving his axe over the shields as he shouted, “If you are waiting for a time to surrender, now would be it! I promise that any of you who lay down your weapons now will have a chance to live the rest of their pathetic days as our cup bearers, and will share the warmest kennels with our dogs!” 

“Come over here and take them, you filthy sons of whores and swine!” Came a voice from just behind the barricade. 

“I see you there, you cock sucking Conqueror! You nithing, shit eating son of a she-troll!” Gunnar roared, pointing with his axe across the street at the Pyre Knight he presumed had called out to return his challenge, “I am coming for you! Know that this day your head will be taken by none other than Gunnar the Bear, son of Bjorn Steel-Hide!”

Herleif's heart swelled with pride to hear his father's name invoked just before a fight, but his eyes were still fixed firmly on the building where Skuld and Priscilla were making quick work of the archers. Every so often he caught sight of them in one of the windows, skewering a helpless archer or taking one by surprise. “Steady men. Steady,” he urged, feeling the men around him tense up in anticipation of the charge against the barricade. 

Gunnar was gripped well by the battle lust now, and was practically climbing over the backs of his fellow warriors for a chance to hurl more insults over at the Pyre Knights. “That's it! You have all had your chance! I swear in Odin's great name that all of you will die this day!”

At that exact moment, three lit and flaming fire-flasks flew out of the windows of the building that held Skuld and the others, and soared through the air straight into the opposite building across the street where the Pyre Knights were gathered behind the barricade. With a loud crash they exploded, causing the interior of the structure to burst into flames, burning the archers inside alive without hope of rescue. The Pyre Knights down below glanced upward at the smoking inferno, hearing the screams of their comrades as the explosion sent fire falling down on their heads.

“Charge!” Herleif shouted, springing forward with Marcelo and those around him. They moved as one, the shield wall rushing like a wave rolling towards the shore, and ran howling across the open street. No arrows rained down upon them now, and no bombs exploded at their feet as they charged over the fallen bodies that had gone before them. With a primal cry of rage the Bilrost Vikings ran at the barricade with all speed, Herleif leading them and Gunnar roaring behind as they charged together with mad fury. Marcelo was no longer by Herleif's side, having somehow dropped back out of sight and into the advancing horde of raging Vikings. Herleif would have to trust that the Warden could look after himself, and that the gods would look kindly upon him for at least standing in the shield wall as the battle raged on. 

He didn't stop once the had barricade had been reached, but instead clambered up and over its side. A Warlord's duty was to lead and command from the front, not to hide back among his warriors and let other's do the fighting for him. Pride and honor demanded that he be the first to jump over the barricade, and he did so without fear for he knew that the Norns had already determined whether or not he would die this day. The sudden explosion in the building above had been enough of a distraction that there was no sea of blades and sharp metal waiting to cut him to pieces once he dropped down on the other side, and he gave a roar of challenge as he pushed himself up and over the barricade to drop in among his enemies on the other side. His feet hit solid ground just as a Lawbringer's poleaxe slammed down on his shield, as the Pyre Knights rallied quickly and the sea of Vikings came surging at them in a wave of weapons and shields. Blocking the attack, he kept his enemy's weapon up high and thrust his sword forward, splitting through metal and into the body underneath. The Lawbringer dropped, but already another Pyre Knight was stepping up to take his place. Herleif slammed the rim of his shield into that Knight's face and pushed forward, feeling the surge of bodies press up against him from behind as more and more of his own warriors spilled over the barricade and into the fight.

Somewhere Gunnar was shouting over the sound of clashing weapons and screaming warriors, no doubt hacking and carving his way through the Pyre Knights as he called out to the gods. “Odin! Thor! Tyr! See me, and be glad at the slaughter I give you today!” Herleif could not see his brother through the crowd of bodies clashing together, but up above in the air he spotted the shining helmet of a Conqueror soaring freely with blood dribbling from the stump of the severed head still inside, and heard the unmistakable sound of Gunnar laughing not far off.

They Pyre Knights tried to push back, to counter attack and trap what Vikings that stood before them between their weapons and the barricade. Those with spears and poleaxes stabbed up at the Viking warriors that tried to drop over the constructed barrier, killing or wounding them before they could join the fight. With cries of pain and anguish the warriors of Bilrost began to fall, spilling their life's blood upon the cobblestones along with those of the Pyre Knights who were already dead and gone. Those Vikings that came over the wall after, jumped onto their comrades bodies without care as they growled and hacked with their weapons against the Knights who remained.

Off to the right of the street there was a loud bang as a door was kicked open, and out of the building came Skuld, Priscilla, and all the rest to jump into the fray and start cutting down the purple and gold Knights that stood in their way. Skuld speared one Warden through the back, and Priscilla began slicing at legs and weapon hands as she weaved through the Pyre Knights like an elegant dancer to a tune only she could hear. Coal and the Berserker twins had formed up a tight group together, each protecting the other's back as their weapons flew and Pyre foot soldiers fell dead at their feet. Back towards the barricade Helge was cutting a bloody line through the enemy Knights, cleaving her way with hatchet and knife to rejoin her lovers and revel in the blood fray by their side. 

Soon more and more Pyre bodies began to cover the street, allowing the Vikings to push further and give more room for others to hack and dismantle the barricade all together. The Divine Pyre had lost this foothold into the heart of the city, but not all of them were dead yet and so far no cultist had ever laid down their weapons in surrender, even against hopeless odds. 

Herleif was busy trading blows with a Peacekeeper that wore armor of finely crafted studded leather and golden plates. He blocked with his shield as she spun around him, but each time he attempted to counter with his own attack she was already gone, moving about him like a cat toying with a mouse as he tried to cut her down. Seeing her dodge to his right, he brought his shield over to block the thrust of her dagger, only to realize too late that the move was only a feint and she had brought up her sword to slash at his face. The attack was so fast, and his gut instinct to recoil out of the way caused his feet to slip upon the blood covered cobblestones beneath him. Suddenly he was falling, crashing upon his back among the dead bodies and dropped weapons. His head smacked against something hard, a suite of armor or perhaps the street, and his head rang like a bell within his helmet while he lay defenseless and exposed. There was a flash of bright steel, and Herleif thought that for sure he would lose an eye for this ill fated tumble at best. The gods could be fickle with their protection during battle, and just as a man thought he was invincible against the blades of his enemy, he could be cut down in a shower of blood before a scream could even leave his lips.

Herleif closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the blade to bite into him, but the pain he expected never came. There was a scream of pain that cut through the air, but to his surprise the cry was not his own. Sparing one more look, he opened his eyes to see that the Pyre Peacekeeper now had a bleeding stump where her hand had been, and realized that she was the one screaming in pain as she fell to her knees. There was another flash of steel, only this time it was the blade of a longsword as it swiped through the Peacekeeper's neck and parted her head from her shoulders. The body fell, and before Herleif knew what was going on he was being hauled back onto his feet by none other then Marcelo.

“On your feet, my lord. Now is not the time to be laying about,” The Lion Flame Knight said, holding firm to Herleif's armor until he could stand on his own. The Warden's own armor was splattered with so much blood that the patterns of white could hardly be seen, and he looked all together like a red demon crawled up from Hell to strike fear into the enemy.

Herleif blinked a few times to clear his head, having found himself in a bit of a daze after thinking he was about to meet his ancestors in Valhalla. It was a fate that any man of Valkenheim should expect to meet on the battlefield, but to be saved by a man who by all accounts should have been his enemy was a surprising outcome to say the least. Then he grinned, and took his sword along with his shield into one hand so that he could clasp Marcelo's forearm with the other. “Worthy of the Allfather's hall indeed! You have my thanks, Marcelo. Truly.”

Marcelo gripped Herleif's forearm in the warrior's fashion, and gave an appreciative nod of his head before turning to look on down the street. “The way into the heart of the city is clear, but there are still many more of these Pyre dogs that need to be put to the sword,” he growled, the fury up in him now that the blood had begun to flow.

Herleif smiled to hear the bit in Marcelo's voice. “Well, I suppose it is up to us to see it done. The other Jarls wait for us at the city's citadel, and we must join them with all haste,” he said, glancing up at the large domed tower rising up above the rooftops before them. Then he looked back at Marcelo and gave an approving nod. “Lead the way, Warden. Show these bastards what sort of hell they have unleashed by breaking their oaths.”

Marcelo jumped to attention and held his head up high, “It would be an honor, my lord,” he said firmly, and then brought his sword up across his chest in salute before turning to joining the other Bilrost Vikings and Lion Flame Knights in their advance down the street. Herleif watched him go, a small grin on his face and a strange sense of pride in his heart as the Warden was swallowed up by the horde. Somehow he was reminded of his own son, Bjorn, and suddenly he longed to hold all of his children in his arms again.

“Making friends are we?” Came Gunnar's voice from behind him, and Herleif looked over his shoulder to see his brother walking up to him, covered in the blood and gore of his fallen enemies. “You best be careful. If you put the wrong idea into that lad's head he might start thinking that we will all get along just fine after this. Then it will hurt all the more when you have to come back and kill him next raiding season,” he said, planting the end of his blood covered axe on top of the fallen Peacekeeper's head. 

Herleif just shrugged his shoulders. “I prefer to see it as boosting morale. He did share a shield with me after all, and you always want to make sure that the man who falls to fear and panic is not the one standing by your side. If he just so happens to be some Ashfeld whelp, well, we work with what the gods give us.”

“You're beginning to sound like old Jarl Stigandr, hoping for peace between the clans and the legions. Perhaps we should send word to the Samurai as well, get them involved in this whole mess?” Gunnar grinned.

Herleif chuckled and shook his head. “And shall we have the Wu Lin side with the Pyre to make things even? I think we have enough cooks at the fire as is. As for the hope of peace...” his voice trailed away, and he thought about the warriors his sons would become one day, and the risks that came along with such a life. His eyes turned downward, looking over the many bodies of not only Pyre Knights, but the Vikings who had not made it out of the fight and were now drinking golden mead in Odin's hall. How long did he have until the Norns determined that he should join them? A warriors death was the hope of anyone who held a weapon in their hand, but when he thought of dying upon the slopes of some desolate volcano in a foreign land as opposed to his own home surrounded by the ones he loved, he had serious doubts about the fate he once hoped to meet as a younger man.

With a shake of his head, he gave a short chuckle and shoved Gunnar's shoulder. “Enough of this talk. We have killed too many men to think of peace now, and somehow I doubt the Pyre will find the idea very appealing,” he said, hoping to put an end to this subject before the gods looked poorly on him and took their favor away for good without Marcelo around to save him. “Come, Odin's work is not done yet. There is still a Black Prior lurking somewhere in this city, and I am not eager to have her spring upon us unaware.”

Gunnar laughed and rolled his shoulders, taking up his axe again and followed his brother along with the crowd surrounding them. Smoke from the fire still burning billowed up into the sky above Eitrivatnen, filling the air with a gloomy haze that was beginning to block out the sun. The city was bleeding, dying slowly as the Viking horde cut into the ranks of the Divine Pyre from all sides. Only the Divine Pyre's commander stood in their way now, but darkness followed the Black Prior's wherever they walked, as surely as darkness would lay claim to the world with the falling of the sun.

Bodies of the dead and wounded lined the street as Herleif led his warriors towards the citadel that rose up above the rest of Eitrivatnen harbor. Pyre Knights, Viking warriors dressed in the colors of the Headhunter clan, all hacked armor and mutilated bodies cast to the side of the road to make way for those fleeing in retreat or advancing to the fight. But not all among the slain wore armor or a bore a crest of allegiance to one side of the battle or another.

Some of the dead were dressed in simple peasant's garb, or were elegantly dressed merchants laying still among those who had come to bring havoc and destruction upon their home. Many of them were face down in pools of blood, cut down from behind as they had tried to flee, or shoved aside into the corners of buildings and doorways as Pyre Knights barreled over them to reach the citadel. 

“Bastards,” Marcelo spat as he stooped down to pull a young woman up from the road. Dressed in a servants dress, her throat had been slit from ear to ear before being tossed away and left to bleed out a slow and painful death. There was nothing to be done for her now, but Marcelo still set her sitting up against a building rather then leave her to be trampled by the coming Bilrost horde. “Even the Divine Pyre could not have been so heartless to just start killing citizens during a retreat. This has to be the work of Vikings,” the Warden hissed, looking up at his northern companions as they all walked by.

Gunnar stepped up and gave Marcelo a pitying frown, his great axe resting across his shoulders as he gripped the haft. “I wouldn't be surprised by anything these volcano worshipers did after what we saw traveling up river. But this is war, brother. People die. No use crying about it now.”

“Then when? When shall we say that things have gone too far?” snapped Marcelo, rising up to his feet to face Gunnar. He stood nearly a head shorter then the savage Raider, but he squared his shoulders and held his chin up high and unflinching, “She has no weapon. She was an innocent, just a woman running for her life for God's sake! Surely she deserved better than this, not to die in terror trapped between tyrants and savages alike?”

Ragnar slid up behind Marcelo then and hooked the Knight's neck with his arm, trapping in him the crook of his elbow and pulling the Warden in close. “You're in the wrong kind of company for that talk. Best if you just keep such soft thoughts to yourself from now on.” Ragnar whispered, then pushed Marcelo backwards so that he stumbled right into Priscilla's arms. 

Marcelo made to squirm away from the smaller Peacekeeper and shove the Berserker back, but she kept a firm grip on his wrist and kept him still. “Leave it,” she hissed at him, pulling him back into rank with Coal and the rest of the Lion Flame Legion that marched with Herleif, “Now is not the time to fight for the dead.”

Herleif remained silent as he walked on, keeping his eyes forward and refusing to look at Marcelo or the dead woman. The death of an innocent was always a pity in war, but now was not the time to stop and mourn the dead, regardless of whether they had taken up arms against them or not. A Warlord was the shield of his people, and so Herleif was focused on seeing as many of his own warriors through this fight as possible and nothing else.

Further up the street they began to catch up to the other horde that had come in slaughter before them. The warriors of the Headhunter clan had fought their way to the center of the city before either of Herleif or Erik, and now had the city's citadel surrounded. The large building was well fortified though, and the Divine Pyre was putting up a good defense atop its high walls and towers. Arrows rained down into the surrounding horde, but Ivar's warriors would not back down. They took cover behind buildings or the barricades that the Pyre had left behind in their retreat, firing their own arrows up at the enemy and surging through the maze of streets towards the citadel's main gate.

Herleif threw himself right into the sea of Valkenheim men and women, pushing and shouting his way through with his own warriors following behind. Those that looked over their shoulders and saw a Jarl coming their way moved quickly to let Herleif pass, and those that did not got a face full of his shield as he pushed them aside. “Ivar!” Herleif called out once he had traveled far enough up the street to come to a host of Viking Warriors from Thurshmrar, the large hold belonging to Ivar the Red which boarded Herleif's own hold of Bilrost to the south. No one appeared to have an answer for him, or seemed to care. “Where is Jarl Ivar?”

“The mad fuck has rushed forward too quickly,” Gunnar growled as he followed after his brother, glancing at a fallen Headhunter Raider that had died trying to keep his guts inside the gaping wound to his belly and now lay still against a broken market stall. More bodies lay piled off to the sides, Pyre and Viking together, the cost for just a few streets that served little purpose beyond marching forward to more battle and death. Gunnar pushed passed some of Ivar's men without apology, and paid them no mind as they gave him evil looks and grumbled curses under their breath. “He has lost many men getting this far. Better that he would have waited for us to attack the citadel together.”

“Waiting was never one of Ivar's strengths,” Herleif said as he craned his head to see if he could catch sight of the three horned helmet that Ivar wore somewhere in the crowd, but a loud crash from one of the buildings nearby drew his attention instead. Turning to look, he saw the door smashed in, with Ivar's warriors quickly running in and out of the building as if burning flames licked at their heels. Herleif's eyes flashed angrily, for within the arms of those fleeing were silver goblets and plates, small chests or sacks bursting at the seams with stolen loot. A quick look around told Herleif that many others were getting up to the same mischief, with warriors of the Headhunter clan plundering abandoned market stalls, or breaking down doors of storehouses with their shields like cracking a bone apart for the marrow inside. 

Two red clad warriors came out of the building near Herleif carrying a large ornate chest between them, wearing gleeful smiles under their beards at the bounty they had pilfered for themselves. Growling under his breath, Herleif stepped into their path and backhanded one of the men across the face with his shield. Blood flew from the warriors mouth as he was hurled flat on his ass, dropping the chest and causing the second warrior to tumble with it's weight. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Herleif roared, “Your shield brothers and sisters fight and die not ten paces away, and you already seek to plunder and steal behind their backs? How dare you line your pockets while the enemy still breathes!” Everyone's attention was on him now, most of all those who were trying to sneak off with treasure clutched to their chests. Plundering a city was the way that many of these warriors made their fortunes and provided for their families back home, and it was very well their right to do so in return for fighting for their Jarl. But there was a certain way to go about these things, and seeing these warriors taking riches for themselves while others still fought and died filled Herleif with a rage that he could barely keep a grip on. “Useless cowards, the lot of you. Get back into the fight before the Æsir curse us all for this pathetic display.”

The man that Herleif had backhanded to the ground still lay there, eyes fluttering as he groaned and spat blood from between his cracked lips. The other one just stood there fuming next to the stolen chest, glaring at Herleif as if the insults had been directed at him personally. “Who the fuck are you to be telling us when we can and can't be taking our plunder? Those dark Knights are hold up in there tighter then a tick on a 'Zerk's ass cheek, an you expect us to just stand here with all this loot waiting to be claimed? This is ours by right, so you can just piss off for not finding it first!”

Ragna stepped forward and moved right up to the warrior, tossing one of her hand axes up into the air. Ivar's man turned to her and watched the axe rise as it spun around so that the gleaming metal head faced downward towards the ground, and Ragna snatched the weapon right out of the air and hit him across the cheek with the haft of the weapon with a strike that was a blur to witness. With a grunt the man fell to lay next to his companion, and Ragna spit on him before pointing over at Herleif. “You mind your tongue when you speak to our Jarl, or I'll cut it out of your filthy mouth.” 

Herleif gave Ragna a reassuring nod, and then Gunnar stepped up along with Ragnar to start ushering the rest of Ivar's warriors away from the building and back down the street. “Alright, drop it. Get back to the fight, you red goat fuckers. Show me you have a spine before I cut you open to look for myself!” Gunnar shouted, giving one warrior a shove with the long half of his axe while Ragnar chased after some other's with a snarl and snap of his teeth. 

One of Ivar's warriors must have gone to fetch an officer once the confrontation had begun, because a red painted Raider with curved tusks and the top half of a human skull fixed upon his helmet was shouldering his way through the street to where Herleif and the others were standing. “Jarl Herleif,” he called out, recognizing the Bilrost Warlord for who he was, unlike the two bloodied upstarts laid out on the ground. “My Jarl Ivar waits for you at the main gate. He lays siege to the doors, and we will be through soon.”

Satisfied that he had put the fear of the gods into Ivar's warriors to keep them focused on the fight at hand, Herleif gave a nod and departed with the Headhunter Raider. His own Bilrost warriors filed into rank among those from Thurshmrar, nearly doubling the horde that surrounded the citadel. If the Pyre Knights inside had been holding onto any hope of fighting their way out to freedom, it surely vanished like the smoke of a fire carried away on a breeze. 

The Raider led Herleif and the others through the streets around the citadel and towards the main gate. Everyone else was going in the same direction as well, except for those firing arrows up at the Knights upon the walls, or the men holding their shields up high to protect those rushing behind them. Ivar had constructed a small fortification of overturned carts, broken market stalls and whatever amount of crates his men could get their hands on to make a wall. Archers and axe throwers crouched behind that makeshift shelter, firing at any Pyre Knight that might stick their head out of a window or over the walls of the citadel. 

Ivar stood among them, neither crouching into cover or looking very much alarmed at the number of arrows that hissed by him or bounced off the shields of those warriors at his side. Across from his position, separated by a large open courtyard decorated with two lines of tall palm trees, were the large doors of the citadel closed and locked tight to deny the Vikings entrance to the interior. A group of Ivar's warriors were already there huddled together, protecting each other under a roof of raised shields as others hammered the gates with one of the palm trees chopped down from the courtyard and run through with stakes of wood for handholds. They beat the at the gates in a steady rhythm, the large doors shuddering under the force of each blow.

Ivar silently watched his warriors with a sense of serene calm and pride, like a farmer looking over a large golden crop just before harvesting. As if sensing Herleif's approach, Ivar turned and met his eye, though his expression or demeanor did not change in the slightest. “Herleif. 'Bout time you got here,” he said in that same tight lipped, gravelly tone as usual. Again there was no excitement, no sense of urgency to his voice. He simply looked back towards the gates and scratched at his dark beard like he was stuck attending a boring feast with bad entertainment. “I was beginning to think that I was going to have to do all the hard work myself. What happened? That little Peacekeeper of yours get you lost?”

“Something like that,” Herleif frowned, sparing a glance over at Priscilla who walked with him among his warriors. Priscilla gave no notice though, or at least appeared not to. It surprised Herleif to see her lingering so close to him actually, considering what had happened and the threats he had made. But for now at least it seemed that she could be depended on to stay and fight, which was really all that mattered at a time like this. Walking up to Ivar, Herleif stood next to his fellow Jarl and Warlord, looking out across the courtyard towards the gate and ram. “We are here now though. How long until you think that gate is smashed in and we can get on with this?”

“Soon,” Ivar said quietly, squinting over towards the large doors that rattled and shook with each hit of the tropical ram. “Just relax, Herleif. Enjoy the sunshine and the nice breeze coming off the lake. If you'd like I can have a few of my men whip up some refreshments. A jug of wine perhaps? Maybe some cheese? I am sure there is something we could scrounge up from one of these buildings around here.”

Herleif rolled his eyes. “I'll relax when the citadel is ours and our enemies are good and dead. Where is Erik?” he asked, not seeing any sign of the Golden Jarl or the great host of his warriors.

Ivar shrugged his shoulders, not bothering to look around. “Fuck if I know. Taking his time to get to the fight, as usual. Probably has his warriors stopping at every building and combing it top to bottom looking for anything that shines and isn't nailed down to take. No doubt we'll be lucky to get a single painted pearl for ourselves when this is all over.”

“That is very rich, coming from you,” Herleif growled, earning a scowl from Ivar. “I arrived here to find that your warriors were already pilfering the surrounding buildings. Running off back to your ships with arms full of treasure and goods, while the rest of us carry on with the fight. It is a foul thing to accuse another of the crimes you are guilty of committing as well.”

Ivar's narrow eyes became even smaller as he glared at Herleif, until they were just dark slits under the rim of his horned helmet. “I gave no permission to begin such things,” he said in a low growl.

Now it was Herleif who shrugged, looking away from Ivar and back towards the citadel. “I suspected as much. But then you were never very good at controlling your men. Just like the ones who attacked my hold last winter, yes?” he said, glancing sideways at the other Jarl. Ivar's jaw tightened under his dark beard at that remark, and for a moment Herleif wondered if the man was going to challenge him to a duel right there an then. But Ivar held his tongue, which came as a surprise, and instead gave a wave of his hand to the skull capped Raider to approach. 

The Raider came forward, ducking his head a bit as Ivar spoke quietly in his ear. Herleif could barley hear him over the sound of the battle around them, but he caught something about cracking skulls and and a dozen lashes for any warrior caught acting out of line. The Raider nodded, then headed off in the direction they had come. “The matter will be dealt with,” Ivar said, not giving Herleif another look.

Herleif was pleased, but also a bit surprised. A part of him had expected Ivar to just simply ignore the news and let his men run wild while the battle raged on, but it seemed that he did have some sense of honor after all, even if it was just a sliver. Their relationship as Jarls had always been rocky at best, with small skirmishes and feuds existing between their holds even before the time of their fathers. But things were different now, with Jarl Erik making them swear to each other to be blood brothers, each of them to fight for the other and support one another in their endeavors. Herleif had not trusted the oath to ever amount to anything when it had been made, but Ivar had been surprisingly less hostile towards him since the raid had started. “Well, that's good to know. Shouldn't let your warriors snatch all that wine and cheese before we can get any,” he said, the frustration seeping out of him now.

That actually earned a grin from Ivar, but it quickly slipped away from his lips as something high above the citadel walls caught his attention. His eyes narrowed, looking through the hazy smoke towards a high tower rising up into the sky next to the large domed roof. “There she is,” he growled, gesturing with a nod of his bearded chin, “that dark witch.”

Herleif turned his gaze upward, spotting a lone figure that had appeared standing on the tower's open terrace, a hooded silhouette outlined by the sun behind them. Erzebet, the dreaded Black Prior of Eitrivatnen, inheritor of the legacy that was Jafnhar's Bane. A chill fell over the surrounding horde at her appearance, her dark figure looming over the battle like a bird of prey looking to swoop down upon them with wings of death. A moment ago victory seemed all but certain for the warriors of Valkenheim, but now the story of Vortiger's slaughter of Jafnhar's invading fleet years ago gripped their hearts and filled their minds with the first notions of doubt.

Ivar cursed under his breath, sensing the shifting mood among his warriors as he turned back towards the gates and shouted at those battering against it with their makeshift ram. “Break down that fucking door!” he roared, taking his painted sword and shield into his hands. Then he looked up at the tower again, and jumped up onto the barricade to point his blade at the Pyre commander with a shout over the clashing battle for her to hear. “I'm coming for you, Ashfeld whore! I'll cut out your black heart from your chest and burn it for the gods!”

For a while Erzebet had seemed to just be observing the battle from her tower, but as Ivar's voice faded away into echos her hooded head turned in the direction of the barricade. Through the smoke and haze Herleif could only make out her dark figure and weapons, but as a chill ran down along his spine he couldn't shake the feeling that she was somehow smiling. Taking a step further out onto the terrace, Erzebet revealed herself under sparkling rays of light through the smoke. She was dressed all in black, a dark tunic and belt covering her body with her arms adorned in mail and heavy steel plate. A hood shrouded the upper half of her face, but just as Herleif had known, her lips were curled up into a wicked grin as she looked down at the barbarians attacking her gates. Her bright blade gleamed as she held it out into the air, pointing at Ivar in challenge, marking him for death among all the rest. 

Ivar grinned. “Yes,” he muttered under his breath, eagerly awaiting the moment he could meet Erzebet face to face. They only needed to get through the gates of the citadel first, and he looked back to the men across the courtyard with growing annoyance. “Hammer! Hammer hard, you sniveling swine!”

High above their heads Erzebet looked down to her Pyre Knights holding the walls against the Viking invaders. Herleif watched her closely, noticing how she seemed to be focused on something going on inside the citadel's courtyard, behind the high walls and out of sight. He saw her raise up her shield, holding it there for a long while without letting it fall. There was a loud clatter of a lock being unbolted across the courtyard, and a groan filled the air as the large doors were pulled back upon their hinges. 

Those warriors that had been battering at the doors nearly flew forward off of their feet as they swung the tree through nothing but open air. They stumbled in surprise, staring wide eyed through the open gateway and into the courtyard beyond. If they had been expecting a surge of armored enemies rushing at them, there were none who came. All they saw were the open beaks of three bronze eagles, and heard the rising hiss coming from inside the tubes sticking out of their throats.

Erzebet dropped her shield, and the open gates of the citadel erupted into flames.

Herleif had to cover his face with his shield from the brightness and the heat as he ducked down, feeling the fire from clear across the courtyard as it consumed everything in it's path. He had barely heard the scream of Ivar's warriors before they were drowned out by the roar of the flames. The eagle's deathly breath reached nearly all the way across the courtyard, setting fire to the barricades an any warrior unfortunate enough to be caught out in the open. 

They should have known that the Pyre would utilize their new weapon in more ways then just at the prow of their ships. This was the Pyre's last stand, and a wolf was always the most dangerous when it was backed into a corner. As the jets of fire began to fade and the screams of burning warriors filled the air, it became clear to Herleif that underestimating their enemy had cost them many lives.

“Charge!” The voice was muffled through the ringing in Herleif's ears after the blast. He looked up, squinting through a layer of smoke and flickering lights, only to see Ivar jumping over the burning barricade and leading his warriors to the gates right through the flames. He tried to stand, but stumbled, his legs feeling shaking as he finally got to his feet.

He still had his weapons though, his hands gripping tight to the leather bound grip of his sword and the smooth handle of his shield. He looked around, eyes adjusting to the hazy orange glow that surrounded him. Gunnar was pushing himself up by the haft of his axe, snarling in anger as the flames of the burning barricade whipped up around him. Skuld was there helping warriors up to their feet, while the Berserker twins kicked and hacked at charred debris to clear a path through to the courtyard. Helge was nothing more then a dark silhouette before the flames, head thrown back and arms outstretched as she let out a savage howl that barely sounded human, letting the roaring fire fuel the rage of those voices that clung to her mind and drove her to such a blood lust that no man would be able to stand before her and live.

Among all of the chaos warriors burned alive in the strange fire. No one called for water to try and douse the flames. There was no point. Those that burned bright and writhed in pain were left to fall and die, while the living ran on towards the citadel gates that now hung open like a portal to fiery Muspelheim. The gaping maw welcomed the Viking invaders, swallowing them all into smoke and flickering fire as they ran in with their war cries on their lips and deadly weapons held high.

To charge that gate was surely to welcome your own death. But Herleif had survived Erzebet's trap, and so he would fight on. There was no other choice, no chance to stand still and think while the world burned around him. All he could do was take the fight to the enemy now, and so he bared his teeth and pointed his sword at the looming beast that was the enemy citadel, and ran. “Forward, warriors of Bilrost!”

Leading his warriors across the burning courtyard, he ran past the decimated palm trees that cracked and groaned as their trunks burned in a bright gulfs of flame, and charged head long through the citadel gates to the carnage within. Immediately upon crossing the threshold he was met with a line of Pyre Knights come to stop the Vikings in their tracks now that the bronze eagles had gone silent. They were like a rocky barrier that rose up against the waves of a stormy sea as more and more Vikings poured in through the gates. Herleif threw himself at a foot soldier with his shield raised, knocking the man down and then stabbing another through the chest as he moved on. 

The sound of battle was all around him, echoing off the citadel walls and rising up over the domed roof of the keep to the sky above. Clashing weapons, screams of pain and curses howled in anger. There was no order, no plan. There was barely even a line between the Knights and the Vikings, instead just an undulating mass of warriors hacking at each other, the dead falling to be trampled as the living came to take their place in the fight. 

It was utter chaos, and Herleif allowed himself to be taken up in the battle frenzy as he hacked and slashed with his sword, blocking and hammering with his shield. A Pyre Warden slammed into him with his armored shoulder, slicing quickly with his sword, but Herleif brought his shield around to block and drove his own blade into the Knight's belly. Already there was a Lawbringer ready to strike down with his poleaxe from above, but Herleif slammed his head into the Pyre Knight's chest to throw him off balance and slashed a bloody wound into his groin. A foot soldier came at him with a spear once the Lawbringer clattered to the ground, deadly point thrusting quick and low, but there was a flash of movement and a flurry of blades that sent the man falling with his guts spilling out around his legs. Herleif looked, and saw Priscilla weaving her way through the enemy, with Coal smashing a path of death and destruction after her with his flail.

Time seemed to stand still, the fight dragging on with no clear indication of who was gaining ground and who was losing it. Herleif slashed at a Conqueror's arm, then slammed the rim of his shield into the Pyre Knight's neck and watched him drop. More Vikings surged in around him, filling the courtyard just inside the citadel's gates and charging forward towards the domed keep in a constant howl of madness and fury. To their credit the Divine Pyre never stopped fighting, never begged or fell to their knees in surrender. They killed as many of the Valkenheim warriors as they could, but for every Viking that fell two appeared to take their place. The Pyre were outnumbered, and with the citadel's entrance lost it was only a matter of time until they were overrun and defeated. But still they fought on, and Herleif knew that Erzebet had surely worked her fanatics into a frenzy to fight to the last man, perhaps under the threat that her warriors should have more to fear from her then any savage from the north.

He needed to find her, to put her down just as Erik had said. Then perhaps that would help take the fight out of the volcano worshipers and bring the fight to a swift end. Over to the left side of the courtyard was a set of steps that looked like the led to the tower where he had spotted Erzebet standing watch earlier. The Headhunter Raider with the skull capped helmet was there, single handily holding back a group of Pyre Knights that looked to be desperate to make it up those steps. Herleif gathered together a few of his own warriors, and then led them in a charge, rushing to the Raider's aide as they hacked and cut at the enemy from behind. 

Herleif stabbed his sword through a Knight's back and then tossed him aside, shouldering past the rest as they were cut down and got to the Raider just as he tossed a Pyre foot soldier off of the rising steps to fall screaming into the melee below. “Where is Ivar?” he shouted to the Raider over the clash of weapons and shields.

“Up the stairs with some men! Gone to claim the Prior's head before she can rally her forces,” answered the Raider. The large man bled from a dozen different nicks and cuts all across his chest and arms, but the battle fury helped him ignore the pain for now. Herleif could see in the Raider's eyes that the he still wanted more blood, and was happy to give him the chance to do it. 

“Hold these stairs! Make sure no one comes up behind us,” he commanded, and the Raider nodded as he took up his long axe and jumped down to the base of the steps to start hacking at any Pyre Knight that dared get close. Herleif took a moment before scaling the tower to look out over the chaotic courtyard. He spotted Gunnar in the thick of the fighting, Skuld on one side striking with her spear and Priscilla close at hand guarding his other flank. Gunnar cleaved with his great axe, taking heads from shoulders and splitting men open from shoulder to belly. “Gunnar!” Herleif called out, getting his brother's attention and then pointing on to the citadel keep with his sword, “Push the keep! Push hard!”

Gunnar gave a nod, and then lifted his axe high into the air and let out such a battle cry as to conjure the gods to come and fight by their side. All across the Viking line warriors picked up the call, pushing harder, fighting more ferociously than a cave bear and striking at the enemy with no fear of death or pain. “Victory or Valhalla!” Gunnar shouted, slamming the blade of his axe into a Warden's belly and flinging him up into the air to crash into the enemy ranks.

Herleif gestured to the men with him to follow as he turned and bounded up the stairs two at a time. The passage up through the tower led up in a spiral, rising higher and higher as he saw more of the harbor laid out around him through the small windows that he passed by. It was when he was about half way up that he began to hear the sounds of clashing steel and shouting echoing off the passage walls from above. He pressed on quicker, desperate to get to the fight and help Ivar in any way he could. 

The body of a Headhunter Viking came rolling down the steps, nearly tripping him and sending him falling against the stones as it splattered blood in its wake. The body had been stabbed through the chest, the head bouncing off of each step until it was finally stopped by one of the men bringing up the rear. Further up above the sound of pitched fighting echoed on, only now accompanied by the screams of wounded and dying men. Erzebet was surely steeped in her dark work, slaying warriors with ease up on the terrace standing high above Eitrivatnen. If she killed many more, it may bolster the morale of her forces and shift the tide against those Vikings fighting their way into the citadel's keep.

Gritting his teeth, Herleif let out a snarl as he turned down the steps to stare into the eyes of each warrior that followed him. “Not scared of one little witch, are you?” he sneered. The warriors all bristled and seemed to stand a bit taller at that. They hadn't come all this way to look like cowards before the eyes of their Jarl or the gods now. They gripped their swords tight, and beat their blades against shield bosses to get them ready for the climb. “That's the spirit, lads,” Herleif grinned, and started back up the stairs again, taking them two at a time, “Death holds no sway over us. If she is truly the darkness, then we are Thor's lightning come to split apart the night! We are Thor's hammer, and we will strike her down!”


	12. True Darkness

Until today Herleif had never met or fought against one of the dreaded Black Priors. Once they had been noble Knights from all walks of life and many different creeds, but as the wars of Heathmoor raged on they each pledged themselves to Apollyon as her sworn wolves. Their reputation for violence and extreme cruelty upon the battlefield brought on the contempt and fear of all their foes, and even some of their own allies who grew to think of them as nothing but demons set loose upon the world. But for some time after the War Wolf's defeat it was said that the Black Prior order had fallen with her, vanished into the mist of history, better left forgotten like the remnants of some terrible nightmare. 

The world had seemed a better place without their dark order, but on the day when the Highlander Jarl Jafnhar led his horde against the harbor of Eitrivatnen there came a grim reminder that not all nightmares remained forgotten and lost. Just when victory seemed within Jarl Jafnhar's grasp after days of fighting, the Black Prior called Vortiger stepped out from the shadows, and single handedly killed the Highlander Jarl and laid waste to his Viking fleet. Or so the legend goes.

It was also said that the Knights who survived the Jarl's attack witnessed a scene of such slaughter and death that even they felt their own souls tremble in fear. Not even they wanted to welcome the Black Prior back into their ranks, not after all the needless suffering their order had brought about under Apollyon's rule. Fate, it seemed, had determined that Vortiger would once again take his place in Ashfeld's history, and he would take it in blood. With the Vikings defeated, a second invasion of Samurai warriors clashed against what little Knights remained in defense of the harbor. Allowing these Knights to give their lives just to buy time, Vortiger gathered his dark order to him. At his command he unleashed death from on high with ballistae and trebuchets against the enemy, and the Knights as well. None were spared from Vortiger's wrath, and those that prayed to a higher power for mercy soon found themselves abandoned to the Black Prior's sword.

Vortiger's victory against the Vikings and Samurai was complete. Eitrivatnen was safe, the harbor returned to the forces of Beaufort once they had come to relieve the city. Only they arrived to find the bodies of the slain, both friend and foe alike, hanging from the city walls and their heads stuck upon pikes over the city gates. The Knights were horrified with what they saw, but the strength of the Black Priors was too great to deny and were allowed back into Ashfeld's fold.

The Black Priors had returned, and the world once again trembled under their long shadow of violence and fear. Soon their order was spread across the battle lines, bringing a gruesome death to any that stood against them. Vortiger's terrible deeds at the harbor of Lake Eitrivatnen became legend, and any who dared listen to the tale felt in their soul the chilling terror of true darkness.

Herleif never really knew if the legend of Vortiger was true or not. Shortly after Apollyon's fall a Jarl called Jafnhar had led a raid against Eitrivatnen and met a terrible end, and within the same month a Samurai Daimyo named Daimon had attacked the harbor as well only to have his army be completely destroyed. The fate of the harbor had looked grim, facing down both Vikings and Samurai alike, but somehow the Knights had been able to hold off each invading force long enough for reinforcements to save them. The dark strength of the Black Priors certainly played their part in the defense leading up to that rescue, but whether or not a single warrior really committed such terrible acts against his enemies all on his own seemed a bit far fetched to his mind.

However, as he climbed the steps of the citadel tower to the veranda, and stepped over the slashed and bloody bodies of Ivar's men who lay dead on the stairs, a sliver of doubt wormed its way into his mind. He had passed three dead bodies already, not counting the one that had rolled down the steps further down, but still the sound of clashing steel echoed on up ahead. Most likely Ivar had caught the Black Prior on her way down to the battle, and forced her back up again at a great cost to his own men. Herleif gritted his teeth as he bounded upwards, determined to put an end to the battle once and for all.

Why a member of the Black Priors would join with these volcano cultists was a mystery. It seemed to Herleif that one cult member would stick to their mad ideology over picking another, but when your beliefs only seemed to center around the death and destruction of innocents then perhaps madness is all relative in the end. He would have to go without an answer to that question though, as he had no intention of asking Erzebet about her reasons before he cut off her head.

Daylight shone on the walls of the stairwell now as they approached the top. Herleif could hear the battle going on down below now, the clash of weapons and the screams of the fallen. He could smell the smoke of the fires that still burned at the gates, but he put all thoughts of his brother and his warriors fighting for the keep out of his mind as he charged up onto the veranda and looked for the Pyre Commander that he had come to kill. There was a pained grunt and the sound of metal cutting through a shield, and Herleif turned to his left just as a Headhunter warrior fell to the floor. Erzebet stood above him, slamming the angular point of her tall shield down on the warriors body and ripping her sword free from his chest. 

Erzebet was alone. All alone. Not a single Pyre Knight stood with her upon the veranda, and yet another three dead Vikings lay at her feet, another two looking bloodied and grim as they stood with their shields raised around her. Her black robe and armor was splattered with red blood, and even more dripped from the end of her blade and the sharpened edges of her tall kite shield. The dark leather hood shrouded her face, but just as before Herleif caught a glimpse of a wicked smile spread across her lips. 

For the first time that day Herleif felt the true grip of fear squeeze tightly around his heart. Without a shadow of a doubt he knew he faced a practiced killer now, a wolf strengthened on the teachings of a mad warlord, and now unleashed upon the world by the corrupt leaders of another wicked cult. Erzebet he knew lived for the kill, and now he could feel her dark shrouded eyes turn to rest on him.

“What's this?” came the Prior's smooth voice in the common tongue, which sounded like the hiss of a snake slipping forth from a forked tongue, “More wretched heathens come to play?” 

The four warriors that had come with Herleif came up behind him, adding to the force that stood against Erzebet and outnumbering her eight to one. The smile on the dark warrior's lips never faltered, nor did she seem to shrink away against the men surrounding her. In fact she only seemed to smile wider.

It was either incredible bravery or utter foolishness that Erzebet would fight so many alone, Herleif thought. Surely she knew now that this was to be her end, but perhaps that was what filled her with such excitement in the first place. Only someone truly wicked could find such pleasure in so much death. The thought chilled Herleif to the bone, and he gripped his sword a bit tighter as he began to circle the woman, his men spreading out around her.

“What are you doing here, Herleif?” said another voice in a rough gravely tone. Herleif looked to see Ivar standing opposite him behind Erzebet. His round shield was marked with a dozen slashes from her sword, cutting through the red skulls painted on it's surface. A thin trickle of blood ran down his cheek from an open cut, most likely the result of taking a shield bash to his face at some point. It hardly seemed to lessen any of the fight burning in the Warlord's eyes as he glared over at Herleif like he'd just found an unwanted guest in his hall. “This bitch is mine. I want her head, so don't even think about getting in my way.”

Erzebet turned to stare at the Red Jarl, shifting her sword to her shield hand despite being completely surrounded by Vikings wanting her dead. That hardly seemed to concern her though, as she reached for her hood and tugged it down behind her head. Her hair was shaved down to a dark stubble covering her scalp, and her eyes were shadowed with black paint, but even beyond that they seemed marred by burns that withered and darkened the skin of her cheeks. What was most striking of all though was the wicked symbol of her order cut into her forehead, a red circular scar slashed with mirroring lines that mimicked the image of the sun. Herleif was immediately reminded of the legend of Vortiger, where it was said that the sun turned red as he slaughtered the Viking invaders upon Eitrivatnen's docks. 

“Come and take it then, bastard,” she spat, standing tall before the warriors who cowered behind their shields. “Eight of your men are dead, and yet here I stand, still breathing. How weak you must look before the eyes of the pathetic gods you are slaved to.”

“You know nothing of our gods, witch,” Ivar growled, but he did not break his defensive stance behind his shield.

Erzebet laughed, taking her sword into her hand again and sliding it against the metal edge of her shield so that sparks showered around her feet. The shield's rim seemed sharpened to a lethal edge, making it more dangerous when used for bashing during a fight. “I know that they are false. There is only the darkness that we all must return to. Until then, I will see to it that we all burn in the fires of war! The volcano will consume all, and you will wither and burn before its might like the worms you are!”

“Enough of this!” Ivar spat, stepping up from behind his shield and pointing at the Black Prior with his sword, “Take her!”

Herleif watched on with wide eyed as the two Headhunter warriors flanking Ivar both charged Erzebet together. Even then the woman didn't fall back, remaining perfectly still as both warriors raised their swords and cried out to end her life. “Wait!” Herleif called, but it was already too late. 

With incredible speed Erzebet dropped down to one knee, ducking behind her kite shield just as the swords came down to take off her head, letting the warrior's momentum carry them off balance and up over her shield. “Ad profundis!” she shouted, pushing upward with her shield and flipping both warriors over her at once. They tumbled head over heels, shouting in surprise as they flew through the air. Before they even fell to the ground Erzebet whipped her sword around and slashed at their throats, a bright flash of metal across skin, one after the other. Blood splattered across the floor as the warriors tumbled onto their backs, clutching at their open throats as they died.

Ivar let loose an angry curse, and lunged in with a headbutt to knock Erzebet off balance. She was ready, and dodged out of the way. Her sword slashed at Ivar's face, but he was able to bring his shield up to block the attack in time. The force of the blow still sent him tumbling backwards. Erzebet spun on her heel, striking next at Herleif and his men to keep them at bay before they could even attack and close her in.

Herleif dodged, then knocked her sword clear with his shield, stabbing at her with his own blade. He hit her shield though as she brought it up before her, the edge of his blade glancing off the metal boss and cutting across the wooden surface. Erzebet never stopped moving, never paused. Her shield kept Herleif at bay while she swiped at another of his warriors, taking the man in the leg with a vicious cut. The warrior howled in pain, but was able to remain standing as he desperately tried to step back out of the Black Prior's reach. She came at him again though, striking with lightning speed, smashing the warrior in the face with the edge of her sturdy shield and slashing her sword down on him from above. The man stopped his screaming then, gurgling on dark blood as he fell to the floor. 

The woman was truly a fiend, a demon of war in human form. Her face was completely calm as she stabbed at another warrior's shield, her shadowed eyes cool as a predator's as she forced him back towards the veranda's edge. Herleif tried to come to his men's aid, striking both his sword and shield across Erzebet's back, but the dark woman turned and slammed her shield up to deflect the attack, slicing quickly with her sword across Herleif's belly. Thankfully the broad belt around his waist and the armor he wore kept the blade from cutting into his guts, but the fright made his heart leap into his throat as he jumped away.

While Erzebet was seemingly distracted, the Bilrost warrior pressed up against the veranda's railing tried to duck away to a better position, but there was no escape from the Black Prior's wrath now. She caught him as he tried to dodge, slamming her shield into him hard and pinning him up against the stone railing that wrapped around the tower's edge. Herleif heard the man grunt in pain as the shield bore down on him, and for one fleeting moment their eyes met in a helpless sense of despair. Herleif could see the utter fear in the warriors eyes, but he knew that there was nothing he could do now. Erzebet slammed her shield into the warrior one last time, and the man tumbled backwards over the railing, screaming as he plummeted through the air to the crowded streets below. His scream faded away as he fell, until it could no longer be heard above the battle din that rose up around them.

As Erzebet turned to face her remaining foes, so too did that wicked grin return to her lips. “Mala ultro adsunt,” she hissed, a menacing whisper that promised death. The meaning of her words were not lost on Herleif, for he knew the language of his enemy well. 'Misfortune come uninvited,' she had said. A simple threat, one that Erzebet fully intended to carry out against those who had invaded her stronghold. She stepped forward, the smile on her lips brighter now, more gleeful as she spread her arms wide and held her chin high. “Fools. Come at me then, if you dare.”

There was a blur of movement, and a rush of red color passing by Herleif. Ivar ran headlong at Erzebet and leapt up into the air, sword raised as he flew at her. “You are dead!” he roared, cleaving his sword through the air as he came down on her hard. Erzebet ducked behind her shield again, but Ivar's skill as a Warlord kept him from falling into her trap. He angled himself just to the side of her, his feet landing upon the ground as she thrust at him with her shield, deflecting his oncoming blade but failing to flip him up over her head and over the railing like Herleif's warrior. 

As she tried to bring her sword up to slash at him, Ivar blocked and slammed the blade wide, giving him the room he needed to bring his round shield up and slam it's edge into Erzebet's face. She shrieked in rage as she reeled back, eyes squeezed shut from the pain. Ivar didn't waste any time. He slashed at Erzebet's exposed torso, cutting through her dark robe and the coat of chainmail she wore underneath. However, the cut was not deep enough to claim her life and she remained on her feet, protected by her armor from the lethal blow with barely a scratch on her. 

Snarling in fury, Erzebet charged at them again, throwing her shield wide in a circular arc to keep Herleif, Ivar and the remaining two warriors spread apart and separated. She went after one Bilrost warrior right away, attacking him with two quick cuts of her sword and forcing him to duck back behind his shield. Once he had retreated further back she rounded on Herleif, attacking with her shield first in a bone shaking blow. 

Herleif saw the attack coming though, sliding clear out of the way as she came at him. He could feel the wind against his face as the kite shield went rushing by, clearing him by mere inches. Stepping in he slammed the demon ornament and curved horns of his helmet into Erzebet's shoulder, knocking her off balance and followed up with a quick thrust of his sword. He felt the blade meet resistance, then push through, stabbing into her flank through cloth, metal and flesh. Erzebet gave a sharp scream of pain, flinching away and falling back against the veranda's railing.

When Herleif's blade pulled away from her the tip was slick with red blood. He pulled up his shield and had his sword at the ready behind it, glaring at the wounded Black Prior over the circular rim. He should have pressed the attack while she was dazed, but his own sense of honor bid him to give her a chance at surrender before he took her life. “You can not hope to win this fight. Even if you kill us the city has already fallen. Your followers are all dead or dying. Better to just surrender now and save what few are left while you can.”

Erzebet pressed her shield arm into her bleeding side as she caught her breath, but her dark eyes had lost none of their wickedness. They narrowed into angry slits as she stared back at Herleif, then pulled herself up to her feet against the railing just so she could throw out her head and spit in his direction. It landed against his shield, splattering over the surface and slowly rolling down to the rim. Erzebet sneered at them all with a look of pure contempt, her fingers squeezing tightly around the grip of her sword as she pointed it at each Viking in turn. 

“Well I guess that settles things then,” Ivar growled as he stepped up closer to the woman, sword and shield raised, “I won't pretend that I don't prefer it this way.”

Herleif glanced over at his brother in blood, and spoke to him in their northern tongue. “Easy now. We do this right. A wolf is always more dangerous when it is wounded and cornered.”

Erzebet smirked, and for a moment Herleif wondered if she had understood him after all. Ivar's face screwed up in anger at that smile, his sword coming up as he took another step. “She is no wolf, she is just dead!” With a roar he charged in, raising his sword up high for a single powerful cut to end her life once and for all.

But Erzebet was ready for him. Even as dark blood stained the side of her robe, she was neither weak nor ready to fall. As Ivar's sword came down to split her head in two, she met him with her own weapons, parrying the blow with surprising strength as she rose up against her attackers. Ivar's sword was knocked wide, leaving him in the same position Erzebet had just been in before with his defense broken and his body open to her blade.

“Tace cor tuum!” Erzebet yelled, drawing upon all her strength to slash at Ivar's belly. The dark bearded Warlord reacted as quickly as he could, his eyes going wide as he sucked in his gut to avoid the sword's edge. The sharp steel cut through his hide tunic, but somehow Ivar made it away with only a red line stretched across his belly. A lucky miss, one to thank the gods for later if he managed to survive the Black Prior's fury.

Herleif moved in with a strike of his own, only to be parried as well and forced away. Erzebet moved with the power of a hurricane, slashing her sword and shield with frightening speed to keep Herleif and his warriors at bay. She was gripped by blood lust now, her cool terror giving way to a fiery rage. How Herleif managed to block each bone shaking blow of her sword was a miracle of the gods, but he could give no thought to them as he weathered the storm of steel behind his shield. One of his warriors ducked low to try and cut at her legs, but she knocked his blade away with the lower end of her shield, and cleaved his own shield in two with one mighty blow and slashed through his arm. The man fell back clutching his bleeding arm to his chest, and Erzebet snarled as she lifted her sword to finish him off. 

“No!” Herleif shouted, throwing himself at Erzebet before another of his warriors was lost to her blade. He slammed his sturdy shield into her, giving his man time to retreat, but she shoved right back against him, pushing him back with such force that he nearly tripped over his own feet. 

Then she whirled back around, focusing on Ivar again to finish what she had started. The Red Jarl tried to draw back, but she came at him with her shield, slamming its broad surface into him before slashing at him from above. “Tenebris!” she shouted at him with a terrible cry. 'For darkness,' a promise to claim Ivar's life just as she had done with the rest of his warriors. Her blade struck across his upturned shield, but from the way that the Warlord nearly buckled beneath the power of her attack it appeared that he would not last much longer alone.

Herleif knew that he had to do something. Ivar was trying to keep his shield up, trying to stab at her with his sword, but she was coming at him too hard and too fast. Her bloody blade was a blur of quick and vicious attacks. He couldn't find an opening, couldn't get around her shield to strike and bring her down before it was too late.

Ivar was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. The thought pained Herleif in his heart. For as much as he might dislike the man or blame him for past transgressions, he had become his sworn brother in blood. He had a duty to protect and fight for the man at any cost, or else his honor would forever be marred by shame and failure.

Duty and honor were everything to a Warlord, and with them also came strength. Duty, honor, strength. Strength to protect those who needed it the most, to be the shield that his people needed. To be a shield for his people, for Ivar. Herleif was a Warlord. All he needed was his shield.

“Erzebet!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, hunkering down behind his round shield and glaring at her over the rim, “Look at me!” He planted his feet firmly, bracing for whatever attack came his way next. If she slashed at him he would be ready, but if she came at him with her shield to throw him off balance then his soul would be in the hands of the gods.

It was a mad, ridiculous gamble, offering himself up as a solid unmoving target. Luckily the gods seemed to have found the trick amusing, because it worked. Erzebet was so caught up in her desperate need to hack them all to pieces that she didn't stop to think before she swiped her sword at Herleif and crashed the blade across the broad surface of his shield.

Herleif was prepared for the blow, and knocked her sword aside as soon as it connected. Erzebet's guard was forced open, and with practiced skill Herleif thrust forward with his deadly blade, piercing straight through her armor and driving it deep into her belly with all his strength. Erzebet let out a pained gasp, her dark eyes going wide as what little color she had to her face drained away in an instant. Just as quickly as he attacked, Herleif pulled his sword free again, followed quickly by a gout of dark blood from the woman's wounded gut. 

Immediately Erzebet fell to one knee, only keeping herself upright by slamming her kite shield on the ground and bracing herself against it. Her sword arm fell limp at her side, and her was breath was coming on in deep, ragged gasps. The wicked look in her eye faded away, her face going blank as if she couldn't comprehend that her life might end while her enemies still drew breath around her. Slowly her gaze turned up towards Herleif, a thin line of blood trickling down from the corner of her lips, her eyelids fluttering beneath that wicked symbol carved into her forehead. She took a few more shaky breaths, and then spoke in a soft and blood choked voice, “Even... fine linen... decays...”

Herleif stared back down at her, also panting hard from the rush that still gripped him after the attack. Those seemed like strange words for them to be her last, but strangely he felt that he understood her meaning. Despite the wicked reputation of her order, Herleif had only known Erzebet to be deceptively cunning in her battle craft, and an absolute terror with a blade. The dead bodies of a dozen Vikings marked her as worthy opponent for any warrior that stood against her, and not even two Warlords fighting together could bring her to a swift end. But in the end she had fallen. Fate had not been on her side, and no amount of dark power or skill would save her from death now.

Despite how well Erzebet fought, Herleif could not look past her wickedness to offer up any kind words of respect in the end. He glared down at her, watching as she bled out from her stomach and the cut on her side. “Go on then,” he said in a low, uncaring voice, “go on to your wretched darkness. It is all that you brought about in life, surely it is all that awaits you in death.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Erzebet's lips. “And... what... what have you brought... Viking? ” she said in barely more then a whisper. Her lips twitched even after she finished speaking, and her eyes seemed to look on into nothing, her scared face relaxed and calm. “The darkness... we all deserve it... in the end...” Her eyes snapped up at Herleif then, focusing in on him again with stunning clarity, and the serene expression on her face twisting up into a demonic snarl, “Let us go there together... You and I, embraced by the darkness forevermore!”

Moving with surprising speed, Erzebet sprang up from the ground with a blood chilling howl. She hefted up her shield with the very last of her strength, scything it's sharpened edge through the air in an arc towards Herleif's neck. He barely had any time to react, his eyes going wide with surprise as he desperately tried to lean back and get clear of the shield's deadly edge. 

Suddenly Ivar appeared over Erzebet's shoulder, sword held high just before he swung it down and cleaved the sharp edge into the woman's shoulder. Snarling like a savage beast, he cut deep with his blade, hacking the sword through Erzebet's mail and into her chest. The Black Prior gave a hoarse gasp of shock, blood splattering against her pale face as her eyes went wide. Her shield dropped like a stone, falling harmlessly at her side away from Herleif's neck.

Kicking at the back of Erzebet's knee, Ivar dropped the woman to the floor and ripped his blade free with a jerk of her arm. All Erzebet could do was stare blankly off into nothing, blood dribbling from her lips as Ivar whipped his sword around and pressed it to the back of her neck. Doing the same with the rim of his shield, he sliced both weapons forward with incredible strength, roaring in anger as he cleaved Erzebet's head from her shoulders in a spray of hot gore.

Erzebet's body fell to the ground, one foot twitching for a moment before finally going still. Her bloody head smacked wetly against the stone floor, rolling away as if still trying to escape her assailant, until it finally came to rest against one of the fallen warriors she had cut down herself. Blood gushed forth from the bloody stump of her neck, forming a dark pool around her that stretched further and further outward towards Herleif's boots.

“Fucking wench,” Ivar growled, glaring down at the body at his feet, “Fuck her darkness. Now she is nothing but food for the crows.” He was breathing hard, his broad shoulders heaving as the need to fight and kill still gripped him. Working his jaw, he gathered a glob of phlegm and hocked it onto Erzebet's back, white spit splattering over her black cape.

Herleif was still gripped by the moment where he thought it would be him who would lose his head. He blinked, switching his sword to his shield hand so that he could reach up and rub at the phantom wound he felt across his neck. “Gods, that was too close,” he said softly. Watching the pool of blood stretch out for him, he took a step back away from the body, as if not entirely sure that Erzebet couldn't still strike him down from the world beyond. 

Unable to bear looking at her any longer, he drew his eyes up towards Ivar, staring at him in a new light all together. Whether or not the Red Jarl would truly fight beside him when it mattered most had been a constant source of doubt in Herleif's mind. But for now at least it seemed that Ivar was willing to come to his aid, and in war nothing could be more important then knowing that the man next to you will stand shoulder to shoulder against any threat. “Ivar, thank you.”

Ivar's eyes snapped up to Herleif as if he had forgotten he'd been standing there at all. “What?” he snapped, teeth still snarling beneath his black beard. 

Herleif grimaced slightly, taken a back by the bite in Ivar's voice. “You saved my life. Thank you, brother.” Stepping around Erzebet's still body, he held out his hand in solidarity to his fellow Warlord. But Ivar did not grip Herleif's arm as one warrior embraces another. Instead he just looked down at the open hand as if expecting some kind of trick or deception.

Finally Ivar turned away, showing Herleif his back and shrugging his shoulders. “Think nothing of it. She needed killing. Not like saving your hide had anything to do with it. You're a grown man. Watch your own back next time, and fight better.” He waved his sword around, gesturing at the bodies of those warriors who had lost their lives fighting alongside them against Erzebet. “Or die with the rest of them.”

That struck a cord in Herleif's heart, and he glanced up at the two warriors who still stood with him. They looked haggard and lost after the fight, one with a wounded arm and the other kneeling down next to the bodies of their fallen brothers. All of his men had fought bravely against the Black Prior, and he had no doubt that those that had fallen were already feasting with the gods and their ancestors in the halls of Valhalla. They were beyond his help now, but those who lived would still look to him for strength and hope in the battles to come. That was a Warlord's duty to his people, even more so since he was a Jarl.

Glancing down, he spotted Erzebet's severed head and stooped down to pick it up. He cradled it in his arm, looking down into the blank eyes that shone white within the dark shadows that ringed them. “Take this,” he said, offering the head over to the warrior who had come through the fight in one piece. The battle could still be heard raging on far below the veranda, and they had tarried too long already in doing what they could to break the Divine Pyre's morale. “Find Gunnar. Make sure he shows this to every Pyre fanatic who still stands against us. Let them all know that the Black Prior's hold on Eitrivatnen is broken. The harbor belongs to us now. Go!”

The Bilrost warrior looked up at him as he took the head, accepting it like a cherished gift offered to him by his Jarl. Nodding quickly, he gave a jerk of his head to the other wounded warrior to follow, and together they disappeared back down the stairs of the tower to carry out Herleif's orders. Now it was only him and Ivar left up on the veranda, them and the bodies of their enemy and those warriors that had been their kin. Ivar was walking among them now, watching his steps and frowning down at the bodies of those men who bore his colors.

“This could have been much worse,” Herleif said, feeling a tinge of anger build up in him now as he glared over at Ivar, “The reputation of the Black Priors is known throughout all of Heathmoor. You should have waited for me to go after her. We should have attacked together, as one. We could have planned, used our heads instead of fighting like an angry mob.”

Ivar gave him little more then a sideways glance, his jaw clenching tight before he spoke. “What does it matter how we fought? The bitch is dead now. This battle is over.”

Herleif's shoulders slumped at the carelessness with which Ivar saw the situation. “We could have saved lives, you blood hungry fuck!” he bellowed. Just a moment ago he had been willing to see Ivar as someone he could count on, someone he could trust. But now he could feel all his fears and doubts over Ivar fighting against him bubbling back to the surface. The memory of Sitvek Stone-Breaker dying by his blade in a meaningless skirmish came back to him in a rush of heated emotion, and all he wanted to do was grab Ivar by his collar and smack him about until he saw sense. “Why do you throw the lives of your men away so needlessly? Do they mean nothing to you at all? You are a fucking Jarl! A Warlord! You should be better than that!”

Now it was Ivar who seethed in anger, rounding on Herleif and stomping towards him to close the gap and get in his face. “Do not speak to me on what it means to be a Jarl!” he barked back, spit flying from between his teeth. He narrowed his eyes, leaning in so close now that the curved horns of their helmets nearly touched. “Warriors die! That is war! That is our way of life! Don't act like you are somehow better then the rest of us for trying to change that fact. You prance around and puff yourself up, trying to act like some grand voice of reason. This is nothing but another fucking raid, Herleif. Not some grand quest to right the wrongs of the world, not a chance to prove that you're somehow a better man than any other warrior with a blade. You want to make it home to see your precious wife and brats again? Then fucking kill, you nithing shit! At any cost!” 

Herleif gritted his teeth and slammed his head forward, ramming it into Ivar's face and shoving him back. “Fuck you,” he spat, bringing up his shield in front of him and raising his bloody sword, “If it were not for me you would be dead right now. Cut down with the rest of them! A fucking waste! You're nothing but a rabid dog that can not even stop to think before it bites a friendly hand!” 

Ivar reeled back from the hit, but quickly found his footing and stepped right back up towards Herleif, ignoring the sharp point of the sword pointed at him all together and let it press into his chest. “As if I would ever ask for your damned help. I never wanted your fucking help!” he snarled through clenched teeth, “Would you prefer it if I fell to my knees then? Shall I give my thanks three times over, until you and all the gods are satisfied?” He spread his arms open wide, shield and sword outstretched with Herleif's blade still pressed against him. “Thanks! Thanks! Thanks! By all the gods and creatures of the world, I give my utmost thanks to this mighty hero! A true brother, even to those who give no shit for him or his pathetic kin.”

Herleif glared at Ivar, his body burning up with anger as he tightened the grip on his sword. It would be so easy to just run him through right then, to silence Ivar forever and put an end to this pathetic feud once and for all. It would feel good too, he knew. Deep down he would have been glad to get rid of this savage Jarl, this thorn in his side, and his life would be all the better for it. For some reason though there was something holding him back. In the very back of his mind there was a voice telling him that he was still honor bound to this man, sworn by blood to be his brother until the bitter end. It made Herleif even angrier to think that he should hold true to such promises. Surely the gods knew that even a blood oath to this sort of wretched man was one not worth keeping at all. There was no one else around, no one to witness the ultimate betrayal and say that Herleif was any less of a man for going through with it. It would be so easy.

Ivar's dark eyes glinted menacingly at him, and somehow Herleif felt that the Red Jarl knew what he was thinking. The savage Warlord kept his arms spread wide, as if inviting Herleif to do it, daring him to drive the sword into his chest and prove that he was just as much a dog of war as he was. Herleif bared his teeth, feeling the resistance of Ivar's armor against the tip of his blade as he pressed it forward just a bit more. “You are no brother of mine,” he said at last, letting his sword drop between them, releasing the threat he held on Ivar's life.

Ivar didn't move, didn't so much as flinch. He only smiled and held Herleif's gaze. “When did I ever say I was?” he asked, cool and calm, the fire suddenly gone from his raspy voice, “You're no fool on that front, Herleif, I'll give you that. Erik can think whatever the fuck he wants, so long as you and I know exactly where we stand.”

A feeling of cold dread welled up inside of Herleif's chest, and he wondered if he hadn't just made a mistake branding Ivar as his rival instead of friend. Or worse, as his own enemy. “You should know to stay out of my way from here on out, and I'll give you the fucking courtesy of doing the same.” 

Ivar gave a short grunt of laughter as he let his arms drop back down to his sides. “At last, something we can both agree on. Maybe we can get along after all, eh?” With that he turned and made straight for the stairs, giving no more thought to the bodies around them. “Allow me to do you the courtesy of going down first. You seem a bit twitchy after that fight, and I wouldn't want you to slip and fall from worry of catching something sharp in your back. Somehow I don't feel so troubled by such baseless and discourteous fears.”

Herleif scowled as he watched Ivar descend down the stairs, soon slipping out of sight and leaving him alone on the veranda among the dead. He felt angry, and hollow, like the effort spent here against Erzebet had been a complete waste given the outcome. He and Ivar were meant to be in this fight together, brothers in blood, sworn to fight side by side against any foe. But instead they had only ended up at each other's throats like always. It was sad in a way, knowing that two Jarls couldn't set aside their own rivalry in the middle of a battle in a foreign land. The cold feeling almost made Herleif want to gather his men and just sail home again, to wash his hands of Erik and Ivar both, leaving them to deal with these mad volcano cultists all on their own.

Ivar's words still echoed in his head though, the voice of that savage bastard calling him a coward clung to his heart like the talons of a falcon gripping its prey. He wanted to see his family again, that much was true. But how could he face them as a Viking, as a man, if he abandoned the battle he had sworn to fight all because he was afraid over what he might lose? It seemed like the more he thought about it the more he felt that the person that he had to prove himself to was not Ivar, or Erik, or even Gunnar and his family, but himself. 

In a way Ivar was right. War was a way of life. Not only for the Vikings of Valkenheim, but for all of Heathmoor. Over a millennium of near constant war and still no one had yet to change their ways. It pained Herleif to his core to think that this was all that life had to offer him, offer his children once they were grown, but how could he hope to change things now when all roads led to war? He was a father, and a husband, but he was also a Viking, a Jarl and a Warlord. Right now that mattered more than what waited for him back at his hall in Bilrost, and he would not shame himself now by abandoning the traditions of his people, his way of life. 

A horn blew somewhere down below, then another, and another, echoing on throughout the city back towards the lake. The pattern they blew told of victory, that the city was theirs and the enemy had fallen. Already cheers were beginning to echo up into the air, reaching even the heights of the tower for him to hear. Hopefully Gunnar and the rest came through the fighting alright and in one piece. And if not, then surely they were in Valhalla as was their due reward. 

Looking back down at Erzebet's headless body, Herleif wondered what her reward was for holding onto such dark and wicked beliefs, that the world was better off ruled by wolves to hunt and slaughter the sheep. Had she thought it all worth it in the end, or perhaps just as her life began to slip away she questioned just what it was that she had been fighting for? She would give him no answers now, and just like everyone else who had fallen in the battle of Eitrivatnen before her, she meant nothing to those who still marched on. Just another body to be left behind on the path to riches and glory.

He would send men to gather the bodies of the warriors who lay dead on the veranda, but for now Herleif was done with this fight. It gave him no satisfaction, no sense of victory. He would continue to live, and to fight, to march to the very foot of Mount Ignis and challenge the Divine Pyre on their own ground, but the uncertainty of whether he was fighting for the right reasons would remain with him. 

Turning his back on the fallen Black Prior, he headed for the steps, and descended down into darkness with his head hung low and shoulders heavy with uncertainty. The sun still shone through the thick fire smoke that surrounded the tower, but soon it would begin to set. For now the Black Priors were gone from Eitrivatnen, but for those who remained their darkness was sure to come again, like the falling of night upon the world.


	13. Heroes

For all her life, a Viking raid was something that Priscilla had been taught to fear. They were the stuff of nightmares. Fire and deadly blades, endless slaughter, no survivors left in the barbarian's wake. Somehow though the stories always spread, and by the time Priscilla had grown to be a young woman she was more than ready to join the ranks of Ashfeld's legions to fight against the terrible northern menace. Since then she had fought against Vikings Crow's Path to the Blackstone Hills, doing what she thought was her duty to protect those who couldn't protect themselves.

Now she had just successfully helped a violent Viking horde sack one of the greatest cities of her homeland, but strangely felt like she had done the right thing.

The Divine Pyre had fought viciously, but their zealous resolve had broken once Erzebet's head had been brought down from the tower and placed on a pike. Only a handful of cultists survived long enough to surrender, the rest laying down their lives in the name of the volcano that they worshiped so blindly, their bodies strewn about the Citadel's courtyard and keep. This had once been a place of trade and politics, where magistrates managed the city's affairs and traders from far and wide came seeking permission to sell their wares at the harbor's markets. But less than an hour ago the citadel was a cacophony of clashing weapons and screaming warriors, and now it was only another place of death, like so many others across Ashfeld, and indeed all of Heathmoor. 

Priscilla had done her fair share of the killing, fighting without mercy to finally break the hold that the Pyre had over Eitrivatnen, but now she was good and tired of it. She sat on the steps of the citadel's main keep, back turned to the large wooden doors that had been smashed open during the attack, her fellow Lion Flame comrades who had sailed with Herleif and Ivar scattered about her. Her hands and her blades were both covered in blood, elbows propped up over her knees as she grasped her short sword and dagger, just wondering when everything she had known had all gone to hell. 

Coal sat next to her, shield wedged between his legs as he leaned over it, resting his chin against one fist like some grumpy looking gargoyle. He stayed silent as he gazed out over the crowded courtyard full of lingering Viking warriors, and the burned gates that had been nearly blasted off their hinges by the Pyre's fiery weapon that now sat silent and cold. Priscilla was thankful for the lack of conversation, preferring to keep to her own thoughts for the time being. It was not in a Peacekeeper's nature to be talkative at the best of times, but having barely survived the execution of her mark earlier that day had left her feeling more withdrawn then usual. If only everyone in her company felt the same.

“Do you think we should try to stop them?” Marcelo asked standing up a few steps behind Priscilla, a slight quiver to his voice as he watched a constant stream of Viking raiders move in and out of the keep. Each heathen warrior that went in soon came out again clutching whatever loot and treasure they could get their hands on. Whatever wealth in jewels and precious metals the Pyre had hoarded for themselves of course, but they also came out carrying crates of fine silks and embroidered tapestries, delicate marble carvings and even grand paintings that took multiple people at once to carry down the steps. They all wore big smiles under their scruffy beards, and laughed happily as if they had just found such treasures laying about freely, rather then having to hack and cleave through an entire city just to get at them. 

No, it seemed that the hard work was over and the real raiding could now get underway, and there appeared to be nothing that the Vikings wouldn't pick up and carry off with them if they thought they could fit it into their ships. Marcelo watched on helplessly, busying himself by wiping a cleaning his longsword with a cloth as he fumed as he watched one precious item carried off after another. “These treasures belong to the people of Eitrivatnen, or at least those poor souls who have endured through the Pyre's tyranny. Surely we just can't stand by and watch it all be taken?” 

Priscilla didn't give so much as give a shrug of her shoulders as she answered the young Warden. “I suppose you could try asking them nicely to stop. See where that gets you.” she said in a dismissive drone. 

“Somehow I think that if such a simple solution would work, our ancestors would have succeeded at negotiations centuries ago.” Marcelo countered as he moved down the steps towards her.

“Well I'm out of ideas then. Coal, you got anything?” Priscilla asked. The red and white clad Conqueror just gave a small shake of his head and a grunt that echoed from within his helmet. Priscilla craned her head back as she looked up at Marcelo. “Tough luck, friend. Not every victory is a happy one I guess.”

Marcelo sighed, shaking his head as he looked around and surveyed the raiding Vikings. A trio of them were carrying off a large painting in an ornate golden frame. Within was a picture of a pale woman with a coy smile, standing in a pool dotted with lily pads and wearing a soaked pink gown that left nothing to the imagination of what was beneath. “This is ridiculous. I admit that not all of these barbarians are the wicked fiends I once thought them to be, but I still can't help but feel we have only delivered our people from one terrible fate to another.”

Priscilla reached up and snatched the cloth out of Marcelo's hand as he let it dangle at his side, and sat back against the steps to start wiping her own blades down. “Unfortunately that is the deal we have appeared to make,” she grumbled. She wasn't in the mood to explain to Marcelo how the world at large was not as glorious and honorable as he would like to think, but if he was going to just stand there and patronize the rest of them over their alliance with the Vikings then someone needed to break the sad truth to him. “They help us defeat the Divine Pyre, and the good people of Ashfeld get their lives back. After the Vikings take whatever they want for themselves of course. But that is just the way of things. Can't say that they aren't used to such things by now.”

“It truly was a deal with the devil that we made, wasn't it?” Marcelo said forlornly. 

Working the cloth over her dagger, Priscilla examined the metal in sunlight and flicked away a bit of red bone that had gotten caught in the edge. Her blades would need a good sharpening after all the work they had done today. “Would you have preferred that we stayed and fought the Pyre on our own? Perhaps try to hold out and wait for the other Legions to come and save us in a glorious show of force, united under the Lord-Warden, righteousness and God like in the old days?”

There was a gruff laugh form one of the other Knights somewhere behind her, and Priscilla watched as Marcelo fidgeted uncomfortably before looking down at her. “If we had tried either of those things then we all would have surely perished and there would be no hope of salvation for any of these people,” he said as confidently as he could manage. 

“And so we did what we had to. We survived. We bided our time. Sought out refuge where our enemies wouldn't think to look. And yes, we made a deal with the devil,” Priscilla stated, wiping down her short sword as she spoke, “Not the best deal, but the only one we could make at the time. And now we must live with the consequences of our actions, no matter how badly it might sting our pride. Coal here knows a little something about all that, don't you flail boy.”

Coal turned his head ever so slightly towards the Peacekeeper. “Leave me out of this please,” he grumbled.

Priscilla continued. “Convicted and jailed all for trying to hunt some food to fill his starving belly. Forced to fight in battles that were not his, and then re-deployed up to our legion in the north just before everything went to shit. His whole life ripped apart and turned upside down more so than the rest of us, and yet still he fights on. If anyone can handle keeping their head down and and doing what they have to, its him. So be more like Coal, Marcelo. Just keep your mouth shut, and just do as you're told.”

Marcelo's shoulders tensed as he was told off in front of the other Lion Flame Knights, his hand tightening around the grip of his longsword. “This isn't right,” he muttered under his breath. Out in the courtyard the Vikings had opened up a case full of wine jugs and were passing them out among themselves, guzzling the red alcohol like carefree nobles at a merry summer festival. They were celebrating their success in battle no doubt, and giving thanks to their many war-loving gods for delivering them such grand rewards that they had stolen from their dead foes while caring not for who they belonged to before.

Priscilla ignored Marcelo's grumbling, finishing up with her weapons and then tossing the bloody rag aside. She didn't care what he thought, or anyone else in the legion for that matter. Not about the deal with the Vikings, or what the Pyre had done to their homes and countrymen during their time in Valkenheim. She didn't care about what Beaufort had or hadn't done to try to avoid this catastrophe. It was all in the past now, and there was no changing what had been done just like there was no wiping away the bad blood that existed between them and the other legions of Ashfeld now. Marcelo was right to think that this deal wouldn't be the salvation their people needed to save them from destruction, but his hope for a righteous victory against all the evils of the world was just a fool's dream in the end. Not everything in life was so simple, not so black and white. 

That was why she and Coal were working on their own plan, behind the veil of grand armies and mighty battles. A plan that was long in the making, and longer still in execution, though the end goal was sure to bear the most fruit. The elimination of Li Qiang and the confiscation of his formula was only one step in completing that goal. They couldn't involve the Vikings in their plot. If the Jarls knew about the secrets created by the renegade Zhanhu then they would no doubt take it for themselves. Their primitive fire-flasks would take on a whole new lethal element when used in a fight, creating infernos out of entire battlefields that would be impossible to control. Judith and the rest of the legion couldn't know either. That was not part of the plan Priscilla had made with the Lion Flame commander back at the start of this nightmare, or at least it was the part she had left out when suggesting to Judith that they seek refuge in Valkenheim in the first place. If the others ever found out the true masterminds behind this plan, knew that it was still Beaufort feeding her information and delivering her orders, then they would never trust her again. Too many lines had been drawn in the sand for her to reveal all the cards she held now.

Their plan would work, she believed. It was working, they just needed more time. Just one more victory at the Walled City and then salvation for Ashfeld would be truly within their grasp. They just needed time. She had to believe it would work. She had to hold onto that hope that she was doing the right thing.

A commotion rising up in the courtyard broke Priscilla from her reprieve, and there was a bit of angry shouting as someone tried to fight against the wave of raiders taking their loot of to the boats. Coal lifted his head, looking out over the many helmets and spears, spotting someone that stood out uniquely among the rest. “Mm, here comes that crazy Gladiator,” he sighed, taking up his shield and his flail as he slowly got to his feet, “Why some people are still so fascinated by the Old Empire I'll never know. It's old, and dead.”

Priscilla just shrugged, not bothering to get up as she spotted the Gladiator now weaving through the crowd as he approached. “We make war often enough. Why not add blood-sport into the mix too?” she said grimly.

The Gladiator coming towards them wore a full faced bronze helmet, shaped with the image of a grinning skull on the front, and adorned with a crown of spikes across his head. He was lightly armored, dressed more for a day spent under the hot sun of southern Ashfeld, though he did have a small chest plate strapped to him, mismatched greaves and an armored sleeve on his right arm. His tall trident was slung over one shoulder, and the small buckler in his other hand bobbed up and down in the air as he jogged closer. All in all he appeared to be quite the theatrical figure, no doubt a boon to his popularity when fighting in the arena of some city or another. But this venture was hardly a sporting match, and there would be no wild crowd to cheer for any of them whether they won or lost. Certainly not if they lost. Priscilla remembered how at the time Judith was loath to accept the wayward Gladiator into their ranks as they prepared to flee across the sea, thinking him just an marvelous distraction that would not know how to work in a unit, but he had since proved himself a capable fighter and was actually quick with an exciting tale from his arena days if one cared to listen.

As he approached the steps where Priscilla and the rest were sitting, the Gladiator stopped short and stood at rigid attention. He stamped the end of his trident into the ground, lifted his chin and held his buckler over his chest as he saluted with dramatic flair. “Godfridus Malus Ferocianous, reporting for the most honorable Lady Judith DeLaroux, commander of the Lion Flame Legion, esteemed protectors of mighty Ashfeld's northern coasts!”

“Yes I know who you are, fool. You're the only Gladiator walking around this damn city,” Priscilla said, shaking her head. Always with the fanfare these sportsmen. She knew for a fact that at least two of those names he had given were made up for the arena. No one named their children like that anymore, as the reign of the Old Empire had ended ages ago. “Just tell me where Judith is. And Golden-Shield for that matter. Their presence was sorely missed while taking the citadel.” 

Godfridus didn't so much as lower his chin an inch, keeping his pose with the utmost conviction. “Ah, the most honorable Lady Judith bids that the Lady Priscilla and her Knights come with all haste to the church near the city's eastern gate. It is there that many of the oppressed citizens of this war-ravaged city have taken up refuge during the fight. Now the mighty and terrible Viking Jarl, Erik Golden-Shield, lays siege to this place of holy worship, seeking to plunder the church and take it's sacred treasures and relics for himself. Lady Judith fears for the safety of those defenseless citizens sequestered within, feeling that no Viking will show them an ounce of mercy in their vain quest for gold and material riches!”

As the Gladiator spoke, many of the surrounding Vikings stopped what they were doing and looked in the his direction, heads cocked and eyes alight with curiosity. The news of yet more plunder going on without them in the city had certainly sparked an interest in their minds, and with the citadel pretty well sacked a few raiders near the broken gates were already picking up their war gear to go find the church spoken of. Priscilla looked around and saw this, rolling her eyes under her hooded helmet in annoyance. “I'm sorry Godfridus, could you say that again? Only a bit louder please. I don't think enough of our northern friends heard you the first time.”

“What?” asked the Gladiator loudly, too caught up in his own grandstanding to even notice the commotion his words had caused. 

“This is no time for jests, Priscilla,” growled Marcelo, taking a step between her and Godfridus, “You heard what the man said. More looting and death. Is this really the outcome we sought to achieve here today? We need to go help these people. Now, before all hope for a worthwhile victory is lost.”

Priscilla sighed, and rolled her head on her shoulders before standing up. “There is always hope, Marcelo. If there wasn't we probably would have all just laid down and died a long time ago. It may not work, but at least there is hope,” Giving her blades a quick twirl before sheathing them on her belt. “Alright then, time to get up you lay abouts,” she said over her shoulder to the other Knights, “Let's go be heroes.”

As the others picked up their weapons and moved past her down the steps to follow after the Gladiator, Priscilla's attention was caught by something going on overhead. High above on the tall tower that overlooked the citadel, she saw three small figures moving about on the roof. She realized that they had removed the Divine Pyre's banner from the tower's spire, and were now raising another. A great golden banner, with a bright eagle in the center with it's glorious wings spread.

The banner of Jarl Erik Golden-Shield she knew, proclaiming his new dominion over Eitrivatnen harbor. The very man she was going to go rescue the city's own citizens from now. Funny how life could turn out that way, but one should always expect to lose something when they makes deals with devils.

More and more Vikings crowded the narrow streets as Priscilla and the other Lion Flame Knights got closer to the church. She could see the tower rising up over some of the buildings, stone gargoyles glaring down at the city as if on guard against the barbarian invaders. The building itself was not very grand as it came into full view. A single tower with an angled rooftop, and a rather simple and small stained glass window situated above the main door were its most notable features. Even the surrounding garden was rather modest, with only a few tombstones visible near the backside of the church.

From the crowd of clamoring Vikings that surrounded it though, one would have thought that this church held all of Ashfeld's wealth behind it's doors for how badly they wanted to get in. The horde was shouting for the doors to be opened, banging their weapons against their shields as if they meant to charge the holy building and tear it down brick by brick. 

It took an actual effort for Priscilla to make her way through Erik's Sea Eagle warriors. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their glittering helmets and shields, refusing to let her pass unless she physically pushed them aside. One red haired Berserker shoved her back as she passed by, nearly causing Priscilla to tumble onto her face. The wild woman sneered, and the rest of the Vikings all laughed to watch the little Knight upstart put in her place. Coal moved up and grabbed hold of Priscilla's arm, making sure she remained standing as he put his shield between them and the snarling Berserker woman. 

“Got something to say, tin man?” the Berserker grinned, her hands already going to the twin bearded axes that hung from her belt.

Before the confrontation could escalate, Godfridus appeared, at their side putting a confident hand on the Berserker's shoulder. “Peace, good warrior. Peace,” he said with a slight tilt of his head, the skull embossing on his helmet giving him a wicked grin, “We only seek to pass through, for we are on a most honorable quest to safeguard the poor citizens locked within that coveted house of worship. Let us pass, unless you wish to make contest here and now. I would hate to thrash you about like a novice in the training circle before all of your good comrades here. But I assure you, if it is a fight you seek then you need look no further then I, Godfridus Malus Ferocianous, the dreaded Hell Spawn of Sow Mesa!”

The red haired Berserker frowned at the Gladiator as she glared beneath her metal face plate. “Fucking who?”

“Godfridus! Malus! Ferocianous!” the Gladiator shouted, exclaiming each part of his name with passionate fanfare. Suddenly he moved in closer, getting right into the Berserker's face as the woman reeled back, his voice mounting with grandiose fervor. “Why, it was none other then I who slew the accursed Exile of the Lion Wastes with one perfect stab to his dainty soft foot. You look upon the man who stood toe to toe with the ferocious Shugoki, Hiriyama Jin from distant Jigoku, and walked away with my spine still in one piece! I have danced with beasts from all corners of Heathmoor and taken their heads as trophies to the roar of the crowd! I did mighty battle with the terrible Temptress of Westlake and still had the strength to bed her with incredible passion that very same night! I, who have fought in arenas all across this noble land, and come away with so many scars in so many places that they would shock and awe any who would dare wonder how I received them! I have-”

“Enough! Enough!” snapped the Berserker, slapping the Gladiator's hand away from her shoulder, “Just go! Get gone, the lot of you!” She looked warily between the Knights, then sank back into the crowd behind her and slipped away.

Godfridus stood there silently for a moment, his one hand still raised as if in shock that the Berserker would just leave in the middle of his speech. Then he relaxed, shaking his head sadly. “Ah, yet another fair lady overcome by the magnificence of my grand reputation. Such is the price for achieving such grand deeds in the arena. What a tragedy, the burden of fame. But we must not tarry!” he exclaimed, chin raised and trident held aloft as he turned and strutted towards the church, leading his fellow Knights through the crowd of now quiet Vikings. “Clear a path, you hairy vagabonds! Let us pass, or I shall show you how I defeated the mighty Dragon Lord of Blackrake, and earned myself the title of Bowel Shaker among my many foes!”

Marcelo quickly stepped up next to the Gladiator as he followed, leaning in close as he spoke softly. “You slept with the Temptress of Westlake after your duel?” he asked quietly.

Godfridus chuckled pleasantly. “Indeed. Ah, that is a night that would forever live in songs and poetry if I was the type of man to fornicate and tell the tale.”

“If memory serves, wasn't the Temptress of Westlake supposed to be hideously disfigured from all of her fights in the arena?”

“Oh, God yes!” exclaimed the Gladiator exclaimed loudly, cocking his head towards the warden, “She was quite the frightful sight to look upon when completely undressed. What of it?”

“Nothing,” Marcelo said quickly with a shrug of his shoulders, “Just curious if it was true.”

Priscilla's head was pounding by the time they made it through the surrounding horde to the church's small gate, but whether it was from the day's battle or Godfridus' boasting she wasn't sure. She spotted Judith and the other Lion Flame Knights just beyond the small gate in the church's surrounding wall, standing front and center guarding the doors with weapons drawn. Priscilla looked about for any sign of Erik Golden-Shield, but only saw his son Magnus standing before Judith instead. The young Berserker looked none too pleased with the situation, golden axes clutched tight in his hands, feet braced and shoulders squared as if waiting for a fight to break out at any moment. 

“I don't give a shit who is in there, you old ashen haired wench,” she heard the Berserker snarl as she made her way through the gate, “We're going in to claim what is ours, and as far as I am concerned anyone we find lurking about in there is a part of that.”

Judith simply shook her head, longsword held at her side as she stood tall against the Berserker prince's ferocity. “That is not how this is going to work, Magnus. This is a house of God, and you are standing upon hallowed ground. I will not allow you to commit anymore atrocities here then have already been committed by the Divine Pyre.”

At that Priscilla glanced up towards the church and noticed for the first time how the building had indeed been vandalized during the occupation. The stained glass window above the door had been smashed apart, the holy image depicted by the colorful glass lost and leaving only a hollow cast iron skeleton frame behind. The crest of the Divine Pyre had been drawn on the church doors behind the Knights who stood on guard, and high above the stone cross that should have adorned the tower's top had been broken off and taken away. A glance to her right showed that it had just been allowed to fall from the tower, and now lay embedded in the broken earth and forgotten. 

Such sacrilege. No doubt the Divine Pyre had made quick work of doing away with any remnant of Ashfeld's established religion and replacing it with their own ideology once the north was theirs. They were a scar that needed to be healed, but had she and the other Knights really found the right remedy by bringing the Vikings here to liberate the city instead? Surely they would do no better, finding churches and houses of government as nothing more then stone buildings to be plundered for grand treasure. But there was no point in having second thoughts now. After all it had been her who helped orchestrate this plan to begin with. 

Magnus glared at the Warden commander who stood so defiantly before him, gritting his teeth in anger. “My father's army stands with me. What are few rouge Knights going to do to keep us from smashing those doors down and taking everything within?”

Judith's hand tightened around her sword, the tension mounting as she looked around at all the treasure hungry Vikings that surrounded them. Priscilla took that moment to speak up, leaning into the corner of Magnus' vision with a little wave of her hand. “Perhaps nothing, but I suppose that we could still fill you full of holes before we are all slaughtered where we stand. Its not the best of all possible outcomes, I think, but one that I could certainly live with.”

Magnus whipped around to look at her, his eyes narrowing at the newly arrived Knights, and he realized that he had become surrounded in the church's small courtyard. Indeed, his father's warriors could have made quick work of the lot of them, vastly outnumbering what remained of the Lion Flame Legion. But even a Berserker's strength had limits, and there was no doubt that at least one blade would find it's mark on him before he could escape.

Godfridus stepped forward next, head held high and back straight as he brought his buckler to his chest once again in salute. “Ah, honorable Lady Judith! It is I, Godfridus Malus Ferocianous, who have returned as requested with-”

“Shut up!” snapped both Judith and Priscilla in unison, causing the Gladiator's armor to clank as he jumped with surprise. 

Magnus sneered as he looked back at Priscilla, flexing his fingers around the haft of his axes. “The gods would not allow me to be defeated by such sorry and disgraced warriors such as you lot. I am a favored son of the Æsir, Odin blessed and Berserker strong. I have nothing to fear from the likes of you nithing troll shits.”

“Shall I take that as a challenge then, boy?” asked Judith, finally bringing up her longsword and pointing it at the young Berserker, “Let us do away with all this useless talk, and let our warriors see which of us truly stands with the blessings of the divine on their side.”

“Aha, yes! A contest of skill!” exclaimed Godfridus with a flourish of his trident. Again he stepped forward, moving to Judith's side as he took up a stance and brandished his three pronged weapon at Magnus with vicious intent. “Good Lady Judith, I bid you allow me to stand as your champion in this fight. I will make quick work of this rabid wolf, just as I bested the vile Black Hound of Hylur in my younger days! I will flay his hairy hide and gift it too you as a rug, or perhaps a fashionable scarf if you would prefer.” The Gladiator was posed immaculately in the moment before battle, each part of him perfectly placed to show off the most amount of bulging muscle and gleaming armor, but he failed completely to notice how his commander just seemed to sag and shake her head at the display.

Magnus sneered at the Gladiator, bringing up his axes as if eager to take up Godfridus on his offer to duel. It seemed that he at least was captivated by the Gladiator's ridiculous boasts and raving ego and quickly rose to meet it with some of his own . “Be careful who you address, peasant. I have slaughtered a hundred Pyre Knights today single handily, you clanking fishmonger. I would carve you up like a roasted pig, and feed you to the worms and crows!”

“Ah, is that the best you can do, you little milk drinking cur? If your mother was here, I would slap her for making the effort to birth your mangy hide that you would have the audacity to stand before me now!” Godfridus laughed, giving a dismissive backhanded wave of his buckler as he traded insults with the golden clad Berserker. 

Priscilla could see Magnus' eyes widen with fury beneath his helmet, his blonde beard bristling as he seethed. The Gladiator had obviously struck some kind of nerve in the young, would be northern prince. “You leave my mother out of this, you worthless pile of troll shit! I'll take that pointy stick of yours and shove it so far up your arse that you will become my new banner as I march into battle!”

Godfridus twirled his trident over his head, then planted it in the ground with it's wicked prongs facing the sky. “You are welcome to come and try. Indeed, fortune does favor the bold. Such could be said of your father I think, for he would truly have to be a mighty brave man to hump your mother as she chewed cud in the fields with the rest of his cows!”

“My mother was a mighty shield maiden! Feared across all the land by nithing weak shits like you! Speak ill of her again, and I'll fucking kill you where you stand!” Magnus roared, voice cracking as he hacked his twin axes through the air. His entire body starting to shake as his anger and fury grew, and Priscilla couldn't help but think that this would be the time to ease off and leave the wild, blood crazy Berserker alone. But Godfridus only seemed emboldened by the warrior's threats, going at him again like a bloodhound after the scent of a wounded animal. 

“Ha! That cannot possibly be true. I could never believe that you would be the son of such a mighty she-wolf. All I see before me now is a little golden pup, yap yap yapping as he waits for his fucking balls to drop.”

That got a bit of a laugh from the surrounding crowd, both Knights and Vikings alike. Magnus gritted his teeth, casting hateful glances at all around before rounding on Godfridus again. “You... you spineless wretch of a pig's ass!”

“You quivering shit-pile of foul refuse-eating swine!” Godfridus returned.

“Dirty, maggot-spewing bastard!” Magnus snarled with flying spit.`

“Vile, lice-ridden spawn of a diseased back-alley whore!”

“Cowardly goat fucker!”

“You yellow-bellied fornicator of poor defenseless beasts!”

A few hollers and a whoop went up from the crowd, and there was even someone clapping not far off. Godfridus turned to the onlookers and gave an appreciative nod, puffing out his chest as he took in the adoration. It was almost like those few encouraging cheers were akin to the entire roar of the arena to his mind.

Priscilla had lost interest minutes ago. Instead she found her attention horrendously captured by one small pink nipple that seemingly refused to remain hidden beneath the Gladiator's light armor. She didn't want to look at it, but the situation was getting out of hand so quickly she just couldn't help but be drawn in by the ridiculous little thing, her head cocked ever so slightly as she let her mind drown out the sound of their insults and jibes and just lost herself to the absurdity of the moment. 

Magnus growled and stamped his feet as he stared the Gladiator down, his face growing more and more red like the setting sun. “How dare you speak to me this way!” he yelled for all to hear as he pointed one axe at Godfridus. He began to walk towards the Gladiator, squeezing his weapons tight in his hands until his knuckles turned white. “I am Magnus Erikson! Son of the most powerful Jarl in all of Valkenheim, and you will show me the respect I deserve!” Bringing one arm back, he lifted an axe up high and prepared bury the glimmering edge right into the Gladiator's back.

Just as the swing was about to cleave through flesh and muscle, Godfridus ducked to the side, spinning around with incredible grace and agility as he simultaneously stabbed out with his trident at Magnus' toes. “Away with you,” he taunted, sounding more annoyed then angered by the Berserker's cowardly attack.

Magnus' axe sliced through nothing but air where Godfridus had been, and he gave a sharp yelp as he jumped back from the Gladiator's stab. He barely got his foot away in time before the sharply pointed tips of the trident stabbed into the ground. Hopping back on one foot, his face flushed with embarrassment as his father's own warriors laughed at the spectacle Godfridus had made of him. “Damn you!” he roared, coming at the Gladiator again, this time with axes spinning around him in a flurry of flashing steel and gold. 

Godfridus stood his ground, weathering the oncoming blows like a mighty stone against an endless gale. Magnus spun around and around, swinging hard with his axes so that they sparked and sliced against Godfridus' buckler as he defended himself. Suddenly the Gladiator made a move, hooking the shaft of his trident in the curved edge of the Berserker's bearded axe. Magnus stopped short, his arm and shoulder jerking horribly as all his momentum was brought to an abrupt halt. Unfortunately for him Godfridus had the upper hand now, yanking the young warrior around and sending him twirling through the air. Magnus gave a harsh cry as he soared through nothing and crashed to the ground with a thud. 

Now the crowd was openly laughing, and Godfridus stood before them arms outstretched and urging them to give him more. It seemed that once more after months running and hiding from their foes, the battle-tested fighter could again revel in the glory of his deeds, and stand as a god of the arena once more. He jumped back, moving his feet quickly as he brought up his fists and gave a series of lighting fast punches, dodging and weaving as he fought an unseen enemy all to please the crowd. 

Some of the Vikings were even clapping as they cheered him on. None of them made a move to help Magnus as he stumbled up onto his feet. The young Berserker looked haggard and defeated, doubled over and panting as he went after one axe that had flown from his hand. The Vikings of the Sea Eagle clan just watched and jeered, whispering among themselves as the Jarl's son struggled to defend his honor. 

“That'll teach the whelp some manners!” yelled out some unseen warrior further back, causing Magnus to snarl and snap obscenities at the crowd.

Priscilla sighed in disbelief as she watched the pointless display of arrogance and bravado before her. “This is ridiculous. Nothing but a waste of time,” she said to Judith next to her.

Judith nodded in agreement. “You're right. We're wasting a perfectly good distraction right now,” she grumbled through her helmet. Putting a hand on Priscilla's shoulder, the taller Warden leaned in close and spoke softly. “Go inside and make sure that everyone is alright. See if you can't get them ready to move. I think that there is another entrance at the rear of the church that they can slip out of.”

“Slip out of to where, exactly?” Priscilla hissed back, “In case you hadn't noticed, this city belongs to the Vikings now.”

“It doesn't matter,” Judith bit back, her hand squeezing a bit harder on Priscilla's shoulder. “Take them to the city gates, to the fields beyond. Take them into the fucking sewers if you have to, just get them away from here before these heathens decide they're tired of watching this farce.” 

Priscilla bit her lip beneath her helmet to keep herself from retorting back, and simply gave a nod of understanding before moving back out from Judith's grip. She tapped Coal on his arm, and motioned for a Lawbringer and Marcelo to join her. Together they slipped quietly behind the row of Knights guarding the door, waiting until they bunched up together to give them some cover before ducking into the church as quickly as possible. 

There was another clash of metal against metal from out in the courtyard. She heard Godfridus give a sharp laugh, followed shortly after by the watching crowd erupting into grand applause.

Leading the way, Priscilla slid to the side and made sure that the others got in without much noise, easing the door shut just after the Lawbringer squeezed through in all that armor. The noise from outside quickly softened as the door latched closed, the metal click echoing faintly into the high rafters above. The church was quiet and dark, with only a few candles lit on the far end of the chapel and dim light shining through the small windows. At first one would have thought that the place was completely deserted by how still it was, save the dozens of wide fearful eyes staring back at the Knights out of the gloom. Faces, too many to count, pale and stricken as they knelt huddled together among the rows of pews that stretched forward towards the altar. Priscilla swallowed hard as she looked over them all, realizing suddenly what all was at stake with this plan she had helped implement. There were no warriors here, no one who was about to pick up arms and make a glorious last stand for their family and neighbors. Those fools were surely all dead by now, killed by the Divine Pyre when they had taken Eitrivatnen.

No, what she saw were a bunch of scared women and children, and those too old and weak to be a threat to the Pyre's rule. They all looked small, even the adults. Thin and run ragged, most likely left little more then the clothes on their backs while the Pyre took everything else for themselves. One little girl gave a whimper as Priscilla looked in her direction, burying her face into her mother's chest as the woman held her tight, staring with tear-filled eyes. 

Were they afraid of her? She and the other Lion Flame Knights? It wouldn't come as that much of a shock. Even if they hadn't witnessed their legion fighting side by side with the Viking horde through the city, just the fact that they were standing there now with everything else going on would undoubtedly spark questions. Questions that wouldn't have easy answers to go with them.

A priest stood up from the crowd and took a hesitant step forward, looking at each of the four Knights in turn. He was middle aged, thin, and wore a fine purple robe tied with a golden cord around his waist. He licked his lips and spoke, though his voice faltered at first and he had to begin again. “Are... are they gone?” he asked, licking his lips again, his eyes darting between them a bit quicker, “Are we saved?”

And there it was. Their confusion desperately shackled to a small glimmer of hope. It was all they had at this point. All they could hold onto. It was up to her now to sever that tie. Better now that they faced reality rather then holding onto the dream of a peaceful tomorrow that would never be.

“No, the Vikings are not gone,” she said in a calm and clear voice. No sooner had the words left her lips then the entire church erupted into cries of anguish and fearful groans. Some shot up to their feet, demanding answers as to what was going on. Others remained on their knees, turning to the altar with hands pressed together and heads bowed as they quickly uttered their prayers for mercy. Priscilla took a deep breath, raising up her hands to try to calm the crowd as she continued. “My comrades and I are here to get you all out safely, but I need you to listen to me!” she called out, having to raise her voice to make sure it was heard over all the clamor, “Please! Please listen! Tell me, is there another way out? A back door we could use to get around the northerners outside?”

The priest held his arms out helplessly at his side, appearing at a loss as the rest of his congregation looked to him for answers. “Ah... Y-yes, there is another door. One out of sight in the back. I-it leads out to the cemetery,” he uttered in a weak voice. For a man of faith he looked as if he was about to lose his at any moment, along with whatever sat in his belly from how pale he had become. “But it is a door that we hardly ever use! It is old and heavy, and the hinges will surely creak if we attempt to use it. The Vikings will hear it, I know they will! They will hear us and catch us before we can escape!”

Marcelo stepped forward and put reassuring hand on the priest's arm, attempting to calm him down before his rising fear could spread to anyone else. “Be brave, Father. For the sake of your flock, be brave,” he urged, holding the priest's gaze until the frail man began to nod, “Now is not the time to give into fear. Even if all seems lost, and the wolves howl just outside your door, do not betray your hearts to despair. There is always hope, so long as good Knights are willing to stand up for those who can not defend themselves.”

A few of the older men and women seemed to be encouraged by the Warden's moving words, nodding their heads and looking to others who still needed some encouragement and support. They were good words, Priscilla thought, but not the kind that was going to make the horde just magically disappear and see them all to safety. “Take us to the back door. We're leaving now, all of us together,” she said, leaving no room for doubt in her voice as she looked at the priest. The holy man nodded, then looked to Marcelo and clasped a sturdy hand to his arm before turning and heading for the back of the church. Priscilla moved to help usher the rest to follow, helping a few people up off of their feet and out from between the benches. 

When she came to the woman with the cowering child, the woman gripped her arm tightly and suddenly pulled her in close. “What is going on? Why are the Vikings still here?” she asked, her eyes wide and fearful, with just the hint of madness gripping them. No doubt she only felt afraid for her child, trapped and cornered while the monsters of the north lurked just outside the door. “If you're here, then why isn't the city saved? When will the legions come to save us?” she demanded, growing more hysterical with every question.

Priscilla tried to pull her arm free of the woman's grip, but found it frightfully strong, and she did not wish to hurt the woman by removing her forcefully. “Forgive me, but there is no time. We must be away now. Please, go with the rest,” she urged, still trying to tug her arm free.

The woman only seemed to hold onto her tighter, coming at Priscilla now even as her little girl began to whimper and cry in her arms. “We deserve to know! Have we not suffered enough? My child is in danger! Why has no one come to save us yet!? Why!? Why!? When will someone do something!?”

Again Priscilla tried and failed to pull her arm away. The woman was taller then her, bigger too, looming above her like some overbearing manifestation of judgment for her part in all of this. “Ma'am, please... just go...” she muttered, feeling small beneath the woman's harsh gaze. Her heart began to race in her chest, and she felt like she was breaking out into a cold sweat beneath her helmet, fearful that all of a sudden everyone would round on her and accuse her of being a traitor. Accuse her of being complacent, of toying with their lives to serve her own goals. This was a house of God. How could she deny the truth when it was thrown at her feet? Her breath caught in her throat, making her neck feel tight as she tried to speak, jerking her arm back now to try and get free. “Please, I just want to get you and your daughter out of here. I'm sorry... I'm sorry...”

“If you are here, why do the Vikings remain in the city? Where are the other legions?” continued the woman angrily, “Do they not know what has happened here?”

“Alright, that's enough,” snapped Coal as he appeared next to her, shoving the woman away and moving her towards the others. He didn't seem bothered by the crying child in the woman's arms, or the spiteful glare she flashed him as he pushed her along towards the back of the chapel. “Go on! This isn't a request, now move!” He moved up behind the shuffling crowed, flanked by the Lawbringer who herded people towards the exit like frightful sheep with his poleaxe.

Priscilla backed away towards the front door, panting hard as she pressed her arms firmly at her sides. It felt hot inside her helmet, and the world almost seemed to wobble and sway around her. She was shaking, but she stayed on her feet, refusing to give into the wave of nausea that washed over her. This was nothing she couldn't handle. Nothing more then an old woman who needed to be reminded of her place. She had a job to do, and that was all that mattered. Damn the rest if this wasn't the salvation they were hoping for. They would get their due freedom in time, they just needed to be brave and hold out a little while longer. Everyone just needed to hold out and be calm for a little while longer.

“Are you alright?” Coal asked as he stepped up behind her, making her jump.

“I'm fine,” she snapped, fist clenched tight at her sides, “I... I just got a bit dizzy. It's been a long day.”

Coal paused for a moment. “Are you sure? Maybe you should sit down,” he said, reaching out with a hand to help guide her to one of the benches.

“I said I'm fine!” Priscilla slapped the hand away, spinning about on her heel and sliding around Coal to walk down the aisle. She forced herself to relax, taking on a much more natural gait just like she had been trained to do. Control her emotions, that was what she had been taught when becoming a Peacekeeper. Only let the world see what you want, then you control the outcome of any situation. She faced down savage Vikings and renegade Knights regularly enough, even a pompous Wu Lin for that matter. She wasn't about to break before a few angry peasants now, not when she was so close to achieving her goals. 

“Alright, once you get out to the cemetery keep to the left,” she commanded, refusing to look at any of the wary citizens as they filed into a hall that led behind the altar, “Stay out of sight and look for a way over the fence. From there we make for the eastern gate. If that is too heavily guarded then we will try to slip into the sewers and make for-”

“Priscilla!”

The voice boomed suddenly from outside, loud enough to make it through the thick stone walls and heavy wooden doors of the church, causing all heads to snap back towards the front as it faded up towards the ceiling. Priscilla felt a chill run down her spine, recognizing the voice immediately for its utter authority and command. She glanced over at Coal, who looked back at her with shoulders slumped in despair.

Then the voice came on again. “Priscilla Arentii, I know you're in there! Come out now with all the rest, before I come in there after you. I promise that the first option is far better suited in your best interest!”

Priscilla lowered her head in frustration, leaning over a bench and gripping the wooden back tightly. Her hand jerked suddenly as she slammed it down, grinding her knuckles into the hard surface and letting the pain numb her. “Dammit!” she shouted, ignoring the offended look of the priest as her voice echoed off the walls. 

The Lawbringer glanced at the huddled crowd of frightened citizens, then back to her. “We can still make it,” he urged, “If you keep them busy then I can get them out to the gate.”

Priscilla shook her head solemnly, fists trembling as she clenched them tight. “It's too late,” she spat, refusing to meet any of the citizen's wide fearful eyes, “It was always too late.”

Again the voice sounded from outside, harsher this time, like the bark of a wolf cornering it's prey. “Priscilla! I will not call for you again!”

Reluctantly she turned back around and headed up the aisle towards the front. But before she could get there Coal grabbed her by the arm, stopping her in her tracks as he shook his head. “Priscilla, no. We can't.”

Priscilla looked up at the Conqueror, frowning sadly beneath her helmet and wondering if his face looked much the same beneath his. “Turns out now is not the time to be heroes, Coal. I wish it was, but we're not ready yet.” Tugging her arm free, she gave her back to the man and walked on. Pressing her hands to the two double doors, she hunched her shoulders and pushed as she stepped back out into the blinding daylight.


	14. The Golden Touch

Erik Golden-Shield stood there in the middle of the small courtyard, magnificent shield and winged crown glinting brightly under the sun. His blonde beard was split with a pleased grin, and he gestured at her with his ornate sword as she stepped out to face him. “Ah, I knew you were a woman of reason, Priscilla. Leave it to a Peacekeeper to look at a situation with cold logic, and you will always get logical results in the end,” he chuckled, “Now if only everyone could be as sensible as you are...”

He slowly looked to his right, and Priscilla followed his gaze and looked upon the rest of her legion, cursing under her breath. The small courtyard was filled with Erik's personal housecarls, and they kept the Knights sequestered over by the gate like pigs in a pen, spear tips pointed at their throats while the Knight's weapons lay useless at their feet. Only two stood separately from the rest. Judith, who stood begrudgingly at Erik's side, shoulder's hunched and fists clenched as she clutched her sword; and Godfridus, who looked to be fairing far worse then the Warden commander.

The Gladiator was down on his knees, propped up by two Sea Eagle Raiders who held him up under his arms. The mighty Highlander Old Wolf stood before him, punching his meaty fists into Godfridus' bare stomach again and again with powerful strikes, as if trying to tenderize a slab of meat. Godfridus grunted and wheezed each time a fist slammed into gut, his helmeted head lolling on his shoulders from the force of the impact, muscular stomach bright red from the punishment it had already received. Old Wolf looked neither pleased or upset by what he was doing, simply going about yet another task given to him by his master, and seeing the job done with brutal efficiency.

Magnus stood not far behind his father, back turned to the Gladiator he had fought against and fairly lost to by all accounts. His eyes were downcast towards the ground, but there was a clear frown visible in his fair beard. He seemed to flinch every time the smack of flesh hitting flesh echoed into the air, and he fidgeted and kicked his feet in the dirt as he struggled to come to term with these foul deeds. 

Erik on the other hand seemed completely unbothered by the sound of a man being brutally beaten not five paces away from him. The amused smile never seemed to leave his face, and he beckoned Priscilla closer with a nod of his head. “Come on then, no need to be shy. We're all friends here, yes?” he said. Then he turned to one of his nearby warriors and handed over his golden shield and sword. The warrior took the weapons carefully, backing away with a reverent bow, and Priscilla could see the splatter of crimson blood on the Jarl's blade. It seemed that at least this time he indeed fought to claim his treasure, and giving him another look over it was clear that he was already adorned with new golden rings and bracelets that weren't present when they had left the river fort. 

He looked back to her now, waving with his hand. “Come, come. No need to skulk in the shadows. All of you now. That's it,” he urged, looking past Priscilla and back towards the church.

Glancing over her shoulder she saw Marcelo, Coal and the Lawbringer all stepping out after her. They moved together in a close formation, weapons raised and prepared to go on the defensive. Erik simply chuckled, holding out his empty hands for them to see. “No weapons, if you please. I simply wish to talk is all.” He held his bright smile, the sound of Godfridus grunting in pain as the Highlander assaulted him carrying through the air. 

Priscilla slowly brought her hands out to her side, fingers spread out wide while her sword and dagger remained safely sheathed at her hip. With any luck her comrades would do nothing foolish behind her back while she had her little chat with the Golden Jarl. Just as slowly she began to approach, stepping closer to Erik and Judith as the silent horde watched on. To either side of the barbaric crowd she spotted newcomers pushing their way to the front to watch things unfold over the iron wrought fence. To her left, Ivar and his red thugs, the black bearded savage crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her through narrowed suspicious eyes. 

On the right stepped out Jarl Herleif and his brother Gunnar. She could see the curved horns of the tall Valkyrie behind them, while the twin Berserkers and Shaman stalked like hungry wolves along the length of the fence. For a moment her gaze met with Gunnar's. His face was a picture of surprise and confusion, and if she dared to hope a bit of guilt. If she and the rest of the Knights were to die here today, then perhaps at least one of these heathens would feel something other then joy at their slaughter. Though she had to admit it was a bit surprising to know it was this cocky Raider in particular.

“Now, lets get to the bottom of this, shall we?” Erik said, stealing back her attention as sure as he stole the golden chain that now adorned his neck. He looked between her and Judith, though the Warden refused to meet his eye. “I understand that you have taken issue with my men laying claim to this place of worship. Perhaps they only wished to try their tongues at saying prayers to this mighty one God of yours? Stranger things have happened in these uncertain days.”

Judith remained silent. Again there was only the sound of Godfridus enduring his abuse, the Highlander's fists thumping into him without end. Erik gave a long sigh through his nose, lips pressed tight before turning and raising a hand to his bodyguard. “Take a rest, Old Wolf. I think you have done enough to salvage my son's honor for him,” he said, letting his hard eyes linger on Magnus for a moment, the young Berserker shrinking beneath his father's glare. 

Old Wolf gave a grunt, shaking his hands out as he backed away. Godfridus hacked and sputtered in his helmet between the Raiders who kept him up, sticky red froth dripping from within the rim of his helmet down his neck. The Highlander walked over to his claymore, which he had speared into the ground and leaned against it without a care, spitting onto the ground. 

“I have no delusion over what your warriors seek here, Erik,” Judith said in a stony voice, “I swear to you, I care not for the treasure inside, even if it is of holy purpose. I only wish to see that the citizens of this city are kept safe and out of harms way.”

“Ah yes, the poor people. We must think of the people,” Erik agreed, giving a sympathetic nod of his head. The glare of sun flashed off of his polished golden ornament and right into Priscilla's face, making her squint and turn her head away. Erik seemed to have noticed this and rounded on her next. “I take it they're all still safely inside?”

Priscilla nodded, her hands still outstretched a bit away from the weapons on her belt. “Yes, my Lord. They have come here only to seek refuge from the fighting, and years of bloody raids have left them fearful of your warriors. They are... reluctant to come out.”

Erik narrowed his eyes, then glanced passed her to the building beyond. “A pity. Allow me to show them that they truly have nothing to fear from their saviors,” he said, stepping between the two women and heading for the church. He stepped right up to the three Knights guarding the door, Coal, Marcelo and the Lawbringer all still holding their weapons defensively as Erik approached. The Jarl acted as if they weren't even there, stopping just before them with his hands at his hips as he looked in through the open doors. “Good citizen's of Eitrivatnen!” he called out in that booming voice, the confidence and bravado coming off of him like waves, “I am Jarl Erik Golden-Shield, leader of this grand army that has liberated you from the hands of tyrants. Your city is saved, the strength of their forces crushed by our courage and our steel. I bid you to come out. Come walk again through the streets of your city and feel the sun on your face.”

Priscilla couldn't believe what she was hearing. This alliance of theirs was still a foreign notion, and in all of her years fighting Vikings and plotting against their raids she had never known them to show compassion or mercy. Then again, in those days each engagement was met with a kill or be killed mindset. Now peace was a necessity to fight against an all together more abhorrent foe, but Priscilla's growing suspicion made her realize just how uneasy things with the Vikings still were. Together they had sailed and fought together, even shedding blood guarding each other's backs, but sometimes old wounds were too old and deep to ever really forget.

“Come out! Step into the light and be free!” Erik called again, beckoning the people forth with a wave of his hand. 

Slowly, a lone figure crossed over the threshold of the church, shielding their eyes from the sun above. It was the priest, looking paler then ever as he stepped out from the shadow of the chapel tower. Erik gave a small nod of approval, and behind the priest came the rest who had sought shelter in the church. “Let them pass,” Erik commanded to the Knights. They reluctantly stepped aside, watching the scared crowd shuffle out of the church one by one.

The priest came forward, glancing frantically between all the Vikings before finally settling on Erik. “What is it you want from us?” he asked, his voice small and weak before the Jarl, “We have no weapons, no reason to fight. Surely these people have suffered enough already?”

Erik gave a genuine and heartfelt smile, lifting a hand and clapping it on the priest's shoulder, greeting him more like he was fellow warrior rather then a man of the cloth. “Worry not, my good man. You have my word that you have nothing to fear from me, or my men. And that goes for the rest to you as well,” he said, raising his voice as he looked around at the haggard faces staring back at him, “I promise that none of my warriors will raise a sword or a hand in harm to any of you! No one shall suffer anymore pain or indignity under the boot heels of violent oppressors and mad tyrants!” 

The priest blinked, confusion clear on his pale face. “I...I don't understand.”

“It is a trick. They mean to slaughter us like sheep,” hissed a woman, and a frantic murmurer went up through the crowd. They fidgeted and squirmed, almost like deer ready to bolt at the smell of a predator on the wind. After so many years of living under the threat of Viking invasion, the fear was too ingrained into their very being to trust the northern savages now, no matter how kindly one of them might smile. 

For his part, Erik kept his composure well in the face of their despair. His smile tightened a bit, but he raised his hands into the air and bid them to be calm. “Please, I implore you! It is true, we have come here to plunder riches. Of that I will not protest. But your lives are not what I seek.” He turned slightly, gesturing at Judith and Priscilla for all to see. “These good Knights sought aid in the fight against the Divine Pyre, when your very leaders abandoned you to subjugation and torture. Your lives torn apart, left to ruin, all because the Lord-Warden would not lift a finger to aid those he swore to protect. Now it is us, those who you thought to be your enemy, who have come to deliver your liberation at the cost of our own blood.”

He stepped back towards the priest, holding the frail man's gaze with his own unflinching stare, “All that I ask, is that you give a little in return for this sacrifice that we have made. Stand aside. Go back to your homes in peace, and live well until the wind fills our sails again and we leave this city for good.”

With a gesture of his hand, Erik's spear-men that held the Lion Flame Legion captive relinquished their guard. The Knights glanced about, not sure if this turn of events was a miracle or some cruel jest. A few quickly bent down to retrieve their weapons, but the Viking warriors simply regarded them without a care. 

“Now is not the time for more steel,” Erik observed, “These people are tired, and in dire need of rest. I bid you to escort them to their homes. Watch over them, and see to it that they are kept safe.” 

None of the Knights moved at first, bewildered and caught off guard by this rather gracious request from a Viking Jarl. One by one their heads all turned towards their commander, and Judith was rather put on the spot as her warriors waited for guidance. This was not lost on Erik, who glanced over with narrowed eyes at the Warden. She stiffened up awkwardly, but she gave a nod of her head compliance with the Golden Jarl's wishes.

The helpless citizens seemed all too happy at the prospect of returning to their homes, and they practically ran into the midst of the Knights for some sense of protection. Priscilla watched as they were all shepherded through the front gate, right under the hungry eyes of a wild Viking horde. The Knights spread out, creating a defensive barrier between the people of Eitrivatnen and the barbarians, and Priscilla found herself holding her breath until they had all slipped out of sight. All except the priest who still remained before the open doors of his beloved church.

For a moment the situation had seemed poised upon the edge of a knife, but of all the possible outcomes for it to end one without bloodshed was surely the one Priscilla least expected. Well, almost no bloodshed. Godfridus was still coughing up bloody spit inside of his helmet as he sagged between the two Raiders, but at least it seemed that he would live. After a lifetime of bloody conflict with these northern savages, she would take her little victories where she could.

Judith took a step towards Erik, giving a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure that her Knights had safely led the frightened citizens away safely. “Erik, I... I had not thought that-”

“Not thought what?” bit the Golden Jarl, cutting Judith off. She flinched back, but the Warlord still came at her, closing the distance between them. “Did you not think it was possible for me to act with a level head? Could show compassion to the low and downtrodden who can not defend themselves?” He leaned in, sneering at Judith as he spoke. “Or perhaps you think that just because I am Viking, I am incapable of mercy and restraint when dealing with you Ashfeld fucks?”

Priscilla felt her throat tighten as she watched Erik move in on Judith. He was just a bit taller then the Warden commander, but he used it to his full advantage as he loomed up like a hungry wolf that had a rabbit cornered. The look in his eyes had completely changed. No longer the calm and sympathetic gaze of a humble man, but the wrathful fury of a vicious leader. Judith tried to take a step back, but Erik moved right along with her, staying in her face. “Erik, please. What else would you expect me to-”

“Take that damn helmet off when you speak to me,” Erik growled, cutting Judith off yet again. 

Judith went silent, too stunned to act for a moment, but then slowly lifted a hand and removed her helmet from her head. Loose gray blonde hairs fell around her haggard face, the rest pulled back into a short tight braid behind her head. Her complexion was fair, and she had piercing blue eyes that no doubt burned with cold fire whenever her ire was let loose. Before the powerful Jarl though, all she could do was give an uneasy frown, stretching out an old scar that ran up from her top lip. “We made a deal, Erik. You take what plunder what you want, and in return we end the Pyre and their cult. Then you leave. That is the deal. You leave, and these people get their lives back. Until then I cannot just stand by while old feuds and violent traditions threaten the lives of the very people we are trying to save.”

“Ah, how very noble of you,” Erik said in a mocking tone, “but I think that your are forgetting about one very important thing in all of this. You are forgetting about you Judith, you and your small band of renegade Knights.” Judith's brows flinched in confusion, but Erik only grinned. “What do you think will happen once we have left these shores and returned to our homeland with hulls of our ships full of Ashfeld's treasures? Where will you go? Who will you stand with? Do you think the Lord-Warden and the Legions of Beaufort will welcome your lot back into their fold with open arms for the invasion you have led into their lands?”

Judith's frown deepened, her face contorting into a scowl at the mention of those who had abandoned them and northern Ashfeld to the Pyre's control. It was obvious to Priscilla that the Warden's anger at that betrayal was still as alive as ever, which was precisely why she had given more thought to what might happen when this raid was over and the Vikings were gone. Thought of and planned for, so long as she completed her mission and made it through this nightmare alive. Judith on the other hand was guided only by one thing, no matter how much she might try to hide it behind more noble reasons like protecting the citizens of this war scarred land. She wanted Beaufort to hurt for what they had done. She wanted revenge.

“I told you before, Jarl. My Knights and I stand with you,” Judith spat, refusing to cower any longer before the Viking Warlord, “I swear off my allegiance to Beaufort, and the Lord-Warden. If they would not fight for us in our moment of need then I will not fight for them. I will swear off Ashfeld for good if that is what it takes to convince you. When this fight is over, and these lands safeguarded once again, I will return with you to Valkenheim. There is nothing left for me here now, and I will seek to live out my days peacefully among your people.”

Erik threw his head back and let out a sudden laugh, lifting his hands triumphantly into the air. “Aha! Yes! You almost have it!” Judith backed away in surprise, but Erik wouldn't let her go, gesturing with his thumb and forefinger barely apart as he grinned, “You are this close to understanding. This close, Judith!” 

Suddenly he spun around, moving away from the stunned Warden as he addressed his warriors. “Take it! Take it all!” he roared, waving his hands wildly at the open doors of the church, “It is yours! You have fought for it! You have earned it! Take all that it has to offer and leave nothing behind!”

A great cheer rose up from the crowd, and in moments a group of warriors broke off from the rest and rushed in through the iron gate towards the church. They barreled past the priest, who alone tried to stand in their way and keep them from pilfering the holy relics and treasures within. “Please! Please stop!” He tried to cry, but his weak voice could barely be heard over the heathen's roar. His eyes flicked over to Erik, and perhaps against his better judgment, threw himself at the Golden Jarl and his so called mercy. “Please, you must stop them! This is a house of God! The treasures inside, they belong to the Lord, not to us. You must not do this!” 

Erik's mouth was set to a hard line beneath his beard as he clapped a hand down on the priest's shoulder, just as he had done before. “He is not my God,” he said simply, then threw back his head and brought his golden helmet crashing into the priest's face. The holy man gave a sharp shriek of pain, then crumpled to the ground with a fluttering of his robes. 

“Erik!” Judith yelled, dropping her helmet to the ground. She moved to bring up her sword, but the Jarl was ready for her. With surprising speed he backhanded the Warden across her cheek, making her gasp and reel back as he knocked the longsword from her hand. 

Priscilla made a grab for her weapons at her belt, but in an instant she felt the hard edge of steel at her neck. “Ah, ah...” Magnus grunted at her ear, bringing up his other axe now to the back of her shoulder. Things were happening quickly now, with Vikings rushing about with treasure stolen from the church and the spear wielding housecarls rushing forward to keep Coal, Marcelo and the Lawbringer at bay. They were impossibly outnumbered. Even if the rest of their legion was still present, the Viking horde was a giant compared to their small force.

Before Judith could come to her senses again Erik was on her. His hand snapped around her head, jerking her up to look at him, thumbs pressing into her cheeks. “Let me make this painfully clear for you, my friend,” He snarled, glaring at Judith from beneath his helmet that dripped with the priest's fresh blood, “This city belongs to me now. This church belongs to me. These weak, pathetic people belong to me. It all belongs to me!” he brought Judith in close, his gritted teeth bared as he clutched her tight, “ You belong to me, Knight. You have nothing, other then what I deem to give you. You have no shelter, other then what I am willing to provide. You are nothing but a cowardly traitor who ran to save her own skin when you should have died fighting like a warrior!”

Judith's eyes were still watering from the hard slap to her face, her pink cheeks squished up and lips stretched awkwardly as Erik squeezed her with his strong hands. “But... the people...” she grunted, gripping onto the Jarl's wrists and trying to pull herself free, “We had a deal...”

Erik's lips curled up into a cruel grin. “Oh, don't worry about them. I'll not be called a liar, especially not by the likes of you. I am not in the habit of breaking what is mine. Not when I can still find a use for it.” Judith stared at him with wide and fearful eyes, but Erik's grin only grew as he continued to gloat. “What do you think should happen if Beaufort decided to creep up behind our backs while we assault the Walled City? If you are so desperate to keep them from harm even while swearing off all loyalty to your nation, what would your leaders do see their lives spared?”

It was a blow more devastating then any strike to the face, and Priscilla could actually see the moment the fight flew out of Judith. The Warden slumped, almost as if she was purely being held up by Erik now rather then standing with her own strength. Erik sensed this too, lifting his hands and forcing Judith to crane her head up more. 

“I think now, Judith, you understand exactly where we all stand.” Erik said. Judith gave a desperate grunt at first, but slowly nodded her head the best she could in the Warlord's grip. “Good girl.” He gently patted his hand against Judith's cheek, the woman flinching for a moment before he finally let her go. She stumbled back, taking a few deep, gasping breaths as she tried to steady herself. 

The Vikings continued to plunder the church, coming out clutching golden crosses adorned with jewels, and ornate candlesticks in the armful. Erik turned to watch them, giving his back to Judith without a care at all for any act of retribution. “I thought your God was supposed to be a humble being?” he asked them, the anger and viciousness gone from his voice completely. Just like the flipping of a coin he had put away the ruthless Warlord, and presented himself as the benevolent Jarl once again.

When no one answered him he looked back, his eyes settling on Priscilla still clutched beneath the edge of Magnus' axes. Erik frowned, and gave a jerk of his head for her to approach. Magnus dropped his axes and set her free, giving her a quick jab between the shoulder blades to get her moving. Twisting a silver ring off of a finger, Erik held up the small piece of jewelry so that it's polished surface glinted under the sunlight as he offered it to her. “Let it never be said that I don't reward loyalty when it is given.”

Priscilla hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about, and for a moment wondered if he was just playing with her, considering that her own plans were meant to undermine him in the end. She glanced over towards Judith as if she would have the answer, but the Warden only stared angrily down at the ground, her fists clenched tight at her sides. Feeling that she had no other option, Priscilla held out her hand and let Erik drop the ring into her palm.

“For coming when called,” the Jarl smiled.

“Thank you... my Lord,” Priscilla mumbled, closing her fingers around the ring. Feeling Erik's eyes on her made her skin crawl, and she quickly turned and walked back rather then spend another moment under his gaze. She pocketed the ring rather then slipping it on a finger, sharing a quick and wary glance with Judith as she headed for the gate. In that one look she could almost see the rift split between them by the Golden Jarl, this simple act of gift giving a well thought ploy to pull apart their legion from within. Her raised up while Judith was brought low. Luckily only Coal and the others were left to see, but she was more worried about how Judith might feel personally about this affront. 

Erik gave a long sigh from his nose, glancing about the small group of sorry-looking Knights around him. “I grow tired of all this sulking. Away with the lot of you! Go find somewhere to lay your heads until I call. This battle is over, but there is still much more work to be done.”

Priscilla led the way out of the gate, not daring to look at any of the surrounding Vikings as Coal, Marcelo and the Lawbringer fell in behind her. Judith stooped down to pick up her helmet and dropped sword. She was just about to turn and walk away when she looked over towards the poor Gladiator, nearly left forgotten in the clutches of two Raiders. “Give us Godfridus,” she demanded with what force she could muster in her voice, refusing to remain weak and defeated for long, “Release him.”

Erik glanced over at the Gladiator and gave a small snort of laughter. He waved his hand and the two Raiders threw Godfridus to the ground, one nudging the sportsman with his foot as he fell limp. Godfridus groaned and hacked out a slew of coughs, his body shaking from the effort. Old Wolf watched with one brow raised, a prideful smirk set upon his lips. 

Priscilla stopped just outside of the gate, watching as Godfridus managed to push himself up onto his knees. His red beaten stomach and chest shuddered as he took a deep breath, but as Priscilla listened to him cough and wheeze she realized the the crazy fool was actually beginning to laugh. Whatever was going on inside that jumbled head of his was most likely no good for any of them, but hopefully he had enough sense to keep his mouth shut long enough for them to slip away.

“Aha...ha...you gutless cowards...” No such luck it seemed. “Is that the best...you can do? I suffered w-worse against the abom... abominable Sons of Abaddon, who I killed with all ten of my fingers smashed to a pulp!” he paused, taking a hard swallow, “F-fight me, you shit-licking swine... and I'll throw you into the dirt where you belong...”

Erik scowled at the beaten warrior, his shoulders stiffening as he crossed his arms across his chest. “Old Wolf,” he called out in a voice as hard as stone, “Suddenly I feel that I am all out of mercy for today.”

Old Wolf gave an indifferent sniff, then stepped up to Godfridus and slapped a great big hand onto the back of the man's neck. “You should'o quit while you were ahead, laddie,” he said quietly, and then hurled the Gladiator forward to where his great claymore was stuck into the ground. 

Godfridus gave a muffled grunt as he pitched forward onto his face, only for the sharp blade to catch him right between his shoulder and neck, slicing into him. There was sudden splash of blood across the dirt, and Godfridus was left stuck and gasping for air as he tried to pry himself free of the blade. Before he could even move an inch, Old Wolf jumped at him and slammed a big booted foot at the Gladiator's head. Godfridus gave a lurch forward, the cutting edge biting deeper and deeper into him as he was kicked onto the sword. Again the Highlander slammed his foot down upon the man, this time burying the great sword half way through the Gladiator's bloody neck. Godfridus made hardly a sound as he was cut open, and with one last powerful kick, his helmeted head was cut roughly from his shoulders to roll across the ground. 

Old Wolf made a sound of disgust, grabbing the grip of his claymore and pulling it free of the dirt. With blood still dripping from the sharp metal edge, he balanced the weapon against one shoulder and stalked forward towards Judith as if to dare her to raise her voice against what he had done. The Warden just stared at him, wide eyed and pale faced, her lips barely parted to show her gritted teeth beneath. The fury and hurt was clear in her blue eyes, but she remained frozen in place as the Highlander just grinned. 

Erik shook his head as he chuckled. “Worthless fool. Someone should have told him that such an ego would get him killed someday,” he said, sneering as he glittered with gold and silver beneath the sun.

Priscilla watched the Godfridus' head give a slow spin until it finally went still at the edge of the small courtyard. Around her the Viking horde all laughed and jeered at the fallen Gladiator, some calling out to lay claim to his weapons and armor. The skull face of the spiked helmet stared back at her from where it lay, that toothy grin fixed permanently into the bronze. It was a horrible way to go, beaten and down on your knees, but somehow she wondered if Godfridus preferred it in a way. At least he had gone out to the roar of a crowd.


	15. Attitude Adjuster

The smoke from the funeral pyres hung in the air for a day after the battle ended. It had taken the Vikings that long to gather their dead and send them on their way with respect to Odin's golden hall, while the bodies of the enemy were stripped of their possessions and thrown into ditches outside of the city walls. They were buried without ceremony, with no words of respect. Just dirt to cover the bodies and hide them from the rest of the world forever. There was much talk among the Vikings that the fallen Knights of the Divine Pyre did not deserve to be burned, given their mad devotion to the fiery mountain to the east.

For his own fallen brothers and sisters, Herleif made sure that each warrior received the rites deserving of those who fell valiantly in battle. Their bodies were dressed the best that could be done, then laid out on pyres and set to flame with those who survived gathered around to see them off. Herleif had watched on silently, in somber reflection with Gunnar and the twins by his side, while Helge and Skuld conducted sacred rites that would usher the souls of the dead to Valhalla on a warm heartfelt wind.

The celebration that had followed after, meant to honor the lives of those lost and the victory that came along with their sacrifice, did little to lift Herleif's spirits. In fact even as the day passed, and another followed much the same, he seemed to fall more and more into an altogether sour mood. The oppressive southern heat certainly wasn't helping matters.

“By Skadi and Njord, what I wouldn't give for a cool mountain breeze,” Herleif growled as he dunked his hands into the water barrel before him, “I've always said that Ashfeld is too hot. Even on the shore of a lake the sun beats down on us like a drummer beating the rhythm of the oars. How these people call this land a paradise, I will never know.” He brought his hands up out of the barrel, splashing cool water over his face and hair, gasping softly as he felt it wash over him with refreshing relief.

In the aftermath of the battle, Herleif had set up camp in the villa of some noble that had fled before the battle. His warriors settled in around the building, branching out through the eastern quarter of the city where many of Eitrivatnen's well to do citizens had once dwelt. Erik had taken citadel and its lavish gardens for himself, while Ivar had settled closer down by the docks to be close to his ships. It went without saying that many of the city's seedier taverns and brothels were also situated down by the docks where his warriors passed their time.

Herleif was thankful for the space between the three clans, having no plans to discuss tactics with the other Jarls just then. It had been a hard fight for the city, and though victory was theirs it had still come at the cost of many lives. Combine that with bad blood between Ivar and himself, along with Erik's cruel display of authority outside the church had left him feeling that they had won little in the end.

Nearby Gunnar stood with a small smile on his lips. He gave no acknowledgment of his brother's complaints. He was free of his war gear with his long hair loose from its braid around his broad shoulders, and he held an apple in one hand while stroking the snout of a handsome bay Oldenburg stallion with the other. The horse was incredibly eager for the tasty treat after having suffered through the chaos of the raid, making the apple disappear bite by bite from Gunnar's hand.

Herleif let out a tired sigh, spraying a fine mist from his wet mustache, seemingly unperturbed by his brother's silence as he continued. “I remember the first time father took us raiding to these lands, I thought I would die sweating in my armor before we ever caught sight of the enemy. Seems like such a long time ago now. I wonder how my sons will fair when their time to take up the sword song comes,” he grinned as he reminisced. 

Gunnar kept his little smile as he admired the horse, not bothering to look over at Herleif as he finally spoke. “You sure you will ever wish to go raiding again? Certainly that would mean having to put the sword to your new friends, like Marcelo.”

Herleif's grin quickly slipped away from his lips, replaced by an annoyed frown as he glanced over at his younger brother. The day had finally been shaping up to be a pleasant one, but he could feel tension growing in the air now. “I can't say I've given it much thought. I expect that somethings might change once this is all over, but surely not our whole way of life. Our traditions will always remain.” He eyed Gunnar carefully, catching the slight stiffness in his shoulders and stance. “Something on your mind, brother?”

Gunnar was silent for a moment longer as he let the Oldenburg munch the last of the apple out of his hand. Then he sighed, his shoulders slumping as he wiped his hands and turned around. “Do you think the Lion Flame Knights will come back to Valkenheim with us like Judith said? She made it sound like it was part of the arrangement with Erik.”

Herleif stuck his bottom lip out as he pondered, wringing out his long beard of water over the barrel. “Perhaps. If that was the deal they made then I suppose they could find a home among our people. Erik has always said that his word is golden.”

“Aye, that he does. And I always thought it to be true too,” Gunnar said rather sadly.

“You're not so sure anymore?”

Another pause as Gunnar swallowed hard and dipped his head. “No, not anymore. Not after the way he put his boot to the back of Judith's neck. I know that they are only heathen Knights, but they are fighting on our side now. There is too much at stake to be at each other's throats.”

Herleif nodded slowly, understanding Gunnar's concerns all too well. Already they had come so far on the venture, but still so much seemed uncertain, the path before them shrouded and unclear. Even now he wondered what fate the Norns had weaved between him and his so called blood brother. The troubles between him and Ivar were not over, he could feel it in his gut.

“Erik has, and always will, look to his own interests above anything else. It is why he invited us along on this raid in fact,” Herleif began. “He might say that he wishes to share all the wealth and glory, but in truth he only seeks to have the strength to take the Walled City and claim the vault with as little risk to himself as possible. Tactically it is logical solution to any raid of this scale, but that does not mean that we should not be concerned over the risks that it poses for us.”

“You don't trust him?” asked Gunnar.

“I respect Erik, and all that he has accomplished,” Herleif said earnestly with a small nod. “We will all gain much glory and renown from this endeavor, and in a way we owe Erik for that. But I will be glad once the vault has been taken and he has Apollyon's armor secure in the hold of his ship. Until then, I don't believe there is anything Erik won't do or sacrifice to claim that prize.”

Gunnar sighed again as he leaned against the fence that made up the horse's paddock, his attitude seemingly no less improved. The Oldenburg let out a snort, nudging the Raider's shoulder for more attention. “The armor of Apollyon. Do you really think it is being kept at the Walled City?” he asked as he scratched under the horse's chin.

“I truly hope so, brother. For all of our sakes.” With that Herleif grabbed a nearby cloth and wet it in the barrel, and sat down on a wooden stool to give his armor a good cleaning and polish. Once that was done he would see to his sword and shield as well, and soon enough he would be feeling like a new man. Furrowing his brows concentrated as he ran the wet cloth over his lamellar cuirass, taking great care to clean any blood from between small metal plates.

“What are you going to do about Priscilla?”

The question took Herleif by surprise, and he stopped what he was doing to stare up at Gunnar with his brows raised. Again his peace of mind was interrupted with thoughts of problematic upstarts that he would rather not think about. “What do you mean?”

Gunnar gave a shake of his head as if his meaning was obvious, his long hair waving about. “Priscilla. The Peacekeeper. Are you going to turn her over to Erik for what she did at the docks?”

“Ah yes, the family business,” Herleif said, pondering the question for a moment longer before he shrugged his shoulders. “No, I do not think I will do anything about her. It is hardly the first time a blood feud has been brought to an end in the middle of a battle. And I have no patience to spare anymore thought on her now. Soon we will be away from this place, and there is much to prepare for the march to the Walled City.”

“Are you sure that is a good idea?”

Herleif gave his brother a curious look. “First Judith and now the Peacekeeper? I never thought you to be so concerned over the welfare of a heathen Knight. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“That sounds like a bit much,” Gunnar grumbled, but he couldn't exactly meet Herleif's gaze.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Herleif's lips. “Is that why you're so concerned over Judith and Erik's deal? Careful Gunnar. Show too much interest in these Ashfeld women and people will begin to talk. You remember what father used to say, a woman met on a raid is a treasure to covet but one best not brought back home. Priscilla is quite nimble though, twirling about those little blades of hers...”

“Shut up Herleif. This is serious,” Gunnar snapped, perhaps a bit more harshly then he meant. “I do not know the full extent of what she was up to, but it was more then just a blood feud with a wayward brother. She and that Conqueror are hiding something. I told you before, I don't trust her.”

“I would hardly argue against that from what you told me, but would you see Old Wolf cut off her head as well for the trouble?” Herleif asked pointedly, “There is most likely more to the story then what she told you, that is true. But so far she has done nothing to hinder our plans, or made any move against us. And besides, whatever you think she might be up to I think she and the Conqueror are in it alone. The rest of her Legion do not seem to be involved.”

Gunnar pushed himself away from the stable fence and began to pace across the hay covered stones, waving his hands about in the air in frustration. “Well may they be blessed by the fucking gods for it, but that is not my point. She needs to be watched if anything, and by us. Anyone else would just spill her blood without getting any answers.”

Now Herleif really was surprised by his brother's words, realizing that the incident with the Peacekeeper was weighing on Gunnar's mind more then he had first thought. “You would rather have answers then blood? Gunnar, I do believe you've finally grown a brain inside that empty skull of yours.”

Again Gunnar gave his brother a dirty look. “Fuck off. If you won't do something about this then perhaps I will!”

“Fine!” Spat Herleif, his temper beginning to flare. It was too hot to argue about Knights and their schemes, and he had not the patience to worry about a foreign woman's family issues. “Go try to spy on the spy, and let me know how that works out for you.”

“I will! And I'll be more then ready to accept your apology when I save us all from getting stabbed in the back!” Gunnar retorted. 

“Truly your legend know no bounds, brother. I can already hear the Skalds sing of how you sat and watched poor little Priscilla from dawn till dusk for the good of all Valkenheim. If anyone can get to the bottom of this Loki's trick, it is you.”

“Finally you speak sense! All the better that I do this alone. More glory in the end for me that way.”

“Well by all means,” Herleif growled, pointing over at the entrance to the stable's courtyard. 

“Gladly,” Gunnar huffed, grabbing up his helmet and war gear before walking off. 

“Good. Off you go then.”

Gunnar stopped in the archway of the courtyard and turned back towards his brother. The two of them stared at each other for a long quiet moment. “Prick,” he quickly muttered under his breath, then slipped away.

“Horse's ass!” Herleif called after him, craning his neck for any sign that Gunnar might have heard him before he was out of sight. There was only silence though, until the Oldenburg in the stable gave a disgruntled snort. “My apologies,” Herleif said to the horse, “That was an insult to horses everywhere.” 

Alone at last, he wet the cloth again and set to work cleaning his armor. The sun beat down hot over head, and already he could feel new drops of sweat beading on his forehead. “Gods above. A cool mountain breeze and a good drink, that's what I need,” he muttered, whipping the sweat from his brow and refusing to waste anymore thought on Jarls, Peacekeepers and unruly Raiders. 

Priscilla was in a foul mood.

Stuck alone in some tightly packed storeroom of a spice market, she sat hunched over in the dark with a single candle and the pungent smell of spices stinging her nose. She wanted to be glad that it was at least quiet, but then remembered that she could have found silence anywhere in the market given the fact that the rest of her legion wanted nothing to do with her at the moment. It was one thing to be a reclusive spy, but another thing entirely to be outright shunned.

“Dammit,” she hissed under her breath as she flipped through the withered and burned pages of Li Qiang's notes. During the fight she had tried to grab any that weren't totally lost, but even this handful of pages she had came out barely legible. Problematic to be sure, but nothing that couldn't be solved with some deductive thinking based on what information the incomplete formula did provide.

No, her true frustrations still lay with the fracture that was forming between her and the other Knights. The one caused by that bastard Erik, and his compulsive need to hold everyone around him under his control. Funny how they had all come seeking the Viking's aid together, but now that the Golden Jarl had singled her out with his little gift outside of the church it was as if she was somehow more in league with their former enemies then the rest of the legion.

If only the rest of them knew that nothing could be further from the truth.

At the time of their flight from Ashfeld, and the Divine Pyre's complete takeover of the north, Jarl Erik had seemed like the best option for seeking sanctuary in the land of barbarians. Any other Jarl would have simply killed them on the spot, and even a well-natured man like Herleif would most likely have turned them away principle. But Erik Golden-Shield, he was a man who would find a particular delight in having a host of Knights kept under his care, to possess something unique to him alone among his peers. It was of course dehumanizing to say the least, coveted like jewels for the treasury, but such had been the depth of their desperation.

Priscilla had explained as much to Judith before they left across the sea, but the commander had insisted that she trusted no one else but her to seek out the help they needed, especially among those who had up until then always been their enemy. Now Judith barely addressed her other then to give direct orders while the legion secured themselves in the market district. Everything between them was cold now, but none of that mattered as long as Judith held to the plan that they had orchestrated together, and then altered when Priscilla had alerted Beaufort to their intentions. Things had only grown more complicated from there.

“Are you done yet?” Coal's gruff voice came from outside the small door to the room.

Priscilla glanced over to the pale line of light that stretched across the floor beneath the door, making sure that the two dark shadows of feet standing just beyond remained there. “Be quiet and keep watch,” she hissed before going back to examining the notes.

“People will think it odd to see me standing outside this door all day.”

“And they'll think it even more so to hear you talking to a door, so shut your trap.” Priscilla growled. For a moment it seemed like her words were taken to heart, as no reply came back to her. Giving a small sigh, she slipped a hand over her head and through her short brown hair, tucking some behind one ear, hood down and her helmet sitting on the floor by her side. Then there was a jostling at the door and it suddenly swung open, washing the dark room with bright sunlight, surprising her with an agitated fright. “Dammit Coal! What part of stealth is so impossible for you to understand?”

“Relax, there's no one out there anyway,” said the Conqueror as he dipped his head and stepped into the small room of packed spices.

Priscilla scrunched up her nose as she glared at her assigned partner. “You were just complaining about people seeing you!”

Coal gave a dismissive wave of his hand as he squeezed in against the wall across from her, hunkering down with his flail and shield across his lap. “So, what does it all say?” he asked, nodding at the burned notes in Priscilla's hands.

Her displeasure lingered in the silence between them for a moment longer. “Nothing much,” she said at last, “Only a part of what we need. There is not much concerning the weapon that discharges the flame, but the chemical formula is here. Mostly. I was only able to save a handful of notes from that damn fire magic, no doubt another invention of our dear Pilgrim. Some of the translations were burned as well, so what we do have will need to be transcribed again.” Shuffling through the charred pieces of paper in her hands, Priscilla sighed with growing disappointment. All this effort and putting her life on the line, only to come away with so little.

“So it's all useless then?” Coal asked, clearly disgruntled, “We risked our lives for nothing?”

Priscilla shot him an angry look in the dim candlelight. “No. It is not the complete formula, but it is enough. Barely enough. With any luck the alchemists in Beaufort should be able to piece together the missing components on their own to complete it. Not like they will be getting any competition from the original inventor again.”

Coal reached up and grabbed hold of his helmet and pulled it off of his head and set it on the floor. “Still trusting in luck? I thought you would have learned that lesson out on the lake?”

Priscilla was actually taken aback for a moment as she looked him over. Ever the solitary figure, as was her Peacekeeper nature, she was rather unfamiliar with some of her fellow legionaries on a more personal level, Coal being among them. Now he seemed like the only person that she could really trust; their fates bound together by the message carried by him from Beaufort and given to her to decode and carry out, setting them on this insane mission for glory and country. An outright ridiculous predicament in her opinion. Having to trust someone was just extra baggage she needed to carry, but unfortunately the stakes were far too high for her to do this all on her own, so for the time being at least she was stuck with the cynical Conqueror.

Beyond that though, she stared at him because she just hadn't been expecting his hair to be so curly. It was jet black, and curled every which way around his brows and ears so that he had to run his hand through the unruly mess to move it away from his vibrant blue eyes. He was rather tan, with a strong jaw and a handsome look about him, but had a long white scar stretching from his upper lip and along his left cheek. She had no idea if he had received it before, during or after his time spent in prison and she wasn't about to ask.

They stared at each other in the small quiet space. Her at him, and him at her, the only two Knights with any sense of where this wild fiasco of greed and vengeance was truly heading. 

“Pretty, I know,” Coal grinned, gesturing at he scar across his face, “It's actually done wonders for my sense of self these past few years. No one cared to look my way when I was a mere peasant, but now that I have this I suppose that it gives me a sense of warrior's credibility. Almost like I was actually born a true noble knight.” 

Priscilla smiled at that, and then she actually dared to laugh at his joke. “You? Noble? Just like the Myre is cold and Valkenheim is a muggy swamp, I'm sure.” She laughed again despite herself, along with Coal even, but then her smile faded as she realized what was going on. This was the first time she had talked to the Conqueror since he had arrived at their legion headquarters before the fall. Really talked to him, about more then just their mission or what was at stake if they should fail. 

“Shame that we had to meet like this really. Don't you think?” she asked softly, inquiring just a bit more. At best she would get a more intimate glimpse into the mind of the person she was meant to be working closely with, and at worst they could at least say that they shared at one meaningful conversation between them before they met their end. “I can only imagine how far simpler your life was before imprisonment and pressed into service. If you could go back and stop yourself from hunting on your lord's land, would you?”

“Does it matter?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders and giving a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, “I'm not the man I used to be, and there's no changing that now. Our mighty and wise leaders made sure of that. When they put me on the front line of their battles I learned that life was simply about survival, and now that's all I'm focused on. It's all any of us can do really, in these dark and uncertain times. That's what this is all about, isn't it?” he nodded at the burned notes in Priscilla's hands, “Right now it feels like we're all just animals trying to run from the fire burning through the forest.”

It struck Priscilla how calm Coal was about all this. It was clear that he had no problem speaking his mind, but he wasn't getting emotional about it either. Truly it seemed that the conscripted warrior had come to some sort of peace about his situation, that life spent on the battlefield was better then one spent in a cage. Priscilla actually felt pity for the man, for anyone who would have to be put in that kind of situation, but she kept her face still and expressionless rather then show it.

“Unfortunately the fire is what we are running towards,” she said grimly, “I hate to think what that does for our chances of survival.” 

Coal's vibrant eyes flashed in the candlelight as he gave a short laugh. “Well, we could always take the notes and run. Make our escape and head south to friendly territory. Really I hardly see how taking them all the way to the Walled City made any sense in the first place.”

Priscilla glared at the Conqueror, laying the notes down on the small table and pressing her hand over them. “No.”

“Priscilla...”

“I said no,” she snapped, “This is the only thing Beaufort would accept in return for granting Judith and the Lion Flame amnesty after joining with the Vikings. If we take it to them before the Vikings are dealt with then there will be no reason for the Lord-Warden to spare the rest of the legion in the fight to come. We can't hand over the notes until we have assurance from the legion council that we will all be welcomed back without penalty. ” 

Coal gave her a look that told her he didn't share her certainty. “And if we die before we get that far, what then? The key to such terrible power just sits inside a pouch on your corpse? You're carrying an awful lot of this on your shoulders alone.”

Priscilla shrugged, sorting through the notes again as if hoping that the burned pages and faded ink would suddenly become whole again if she looked at them long enough. “If we die, then we die, and the rest of the world is not our problem. One of the perks of not making through, I guess. The problems you leave behind aren't yours to deal with anymore. Besides, if Judith hadn't been so damn hateful towards the council legion then maybe I could have actually trusted her enough to include her in this plan. Right now I expect that she'd just as soon burn these notes just to spite the Lord-Warden rather then see them given over to Beaufort's alchemists, than expect us all to trade in our armor for leather and fur.”

“She really expect us to go live with a buch of godless savages when this is done?” Coal asked, “Start drinking out of cow horns and dressing like cavemen?”

“Hard to say at this point. For a long time Ashfeld was everything that Judith fought for, lived for even. She believed that our people needed to be defended at any cost, and that everyone under her command should be prepared to lay everything on the line to see it done. But when the council decided to pull back from the coast and leave the north forsaken she was... shaken, to say the least,” Priscilla said sourly. “She will never see what they did as anything less then a complete betrayal. To her mind, it wasn't us who broke an oath to Ashfeld. She will never trust the legion council again.”

Coal quietly looked at her from across the small table, the seriousness in his gaze giving way to bitter understanding. He let out a long sigh, running his gloved hand over his face and through his dark locks. “I'm pretty sure I have been stuck on the front line of battles with better looking outcomes then this,” he grumbled in the gloom. “It's ridiculous. Everything was just simpler when I was in-”

He never got to finish his thought, as the sound of heavy footfalls coming down the hall sure and steady could be heard outside the door. Both Priscilla and Coal glanced towards the thin line of light on the floor, seeing it become obscured by the shadow of someone approaching outside. Together they sat frozen as their minds processed the implications of if they were found out, and then simultaneously burst into a flurry of movement and commotion.

“Fucking move!” Priscilla hissed under her breath, shoving the small table crammed between them away from her so she could spring up.

Coal let out a grunt of pain as the table slammed into his stomach, gritting his teeth as he pushed it back against Priscilla's knees as she tried to stand. “That hurt!” 

Priscilla stumbled, nearly cracking her tailbone on her metal helmet as she dropped down on top of it. “Ow!” she yelped, completely breaking their cover if it hadn't been blown already. The warm light of the candle flickered and waved as the table was jostled between them, and Priscilla gave a defiant knock of the table back into Coal's gut. 

“Stop it!” Coal hissed, pushing the table back in Priscilla's direction. 

“You stop it!” Priscilla shot back, the two of them both gripping the table now and fighting against each other to get free, “You fool! We need to-”

The door burst open, slamming against the wall and flooding the small storeroom with light. Before either Priscilla or Coal could react, a hulking figure stooped down to block the doorway, their shadowed figure looming before them. Priscilla's heart thundered in her chest, having no other thought that they had been found out by one of their comrades. Then the figure spoke, and she realized that things were so much worse then that.

“Heimdall's eyes, why are you two hiding in here?” Gunnar said as he half stepped into the storeroom to look at them. 

Priscilla instantly reached for the dagger on her belt with one hand, the other slamming down on top of the notes to try to shield them from Gunnar's gaze. “You heathen bastard!” she growled, her anger sparking to new heights, “Take your hairy hide away from here! You're not welcome!” She gave the confining table a sharp kick just as Coal was trying to get up, pinning the Conqueror against the wall with a wheeze as she stood up and stormed the intruder. She slapped and pushed at Gunnar's broad chest and sturdy shoulders, willing herself not to take the easy way out and just draw her dagger to stab him in his gut. “You accursed oaf! Go! Get out! Out!” 

Gunnar gave an affronted grunt, then grabbed Priscilla by her hood and dragged her away even as she continued to strike at him. “Easy now! Is this any way to greet a friend?”

“We are not friends! Unhand me!” Priscilla snapped, kicking at his shins as she was pulled through the air. Quick as a viper's strike she reached out and slapped him across the cheek, realizing that he was without his helmet and most of his armor, leaving him bare from the waist up. She dropped down against the table as Gunnar reeled from the slap and released her, slamming it into Coal again just as he was getting free.

“Can we handle this out in the hall? Please?” groaned the Conqueror, not bothering to try to get up from under the table again. 

Priscilla turned and grabbed up her helmet, then alchemist notes off the table, clutching them against her chest. Spinning around she slammed her helm into Gunnar's belly with a dull smack of metal on flesh, forcing the big Raider back out of the doorway so she could escape. “Out of my way!” She slid past him out into the open hall, not pausing or looking back as she tried to quickly walk away.

“Oh no you don't,” Gunnar growled, quickly following after. It only took him a few strides of his long legs to catch up, and easily reached over the smaller Peacekeeper to snatch the collected notes right out of her hands.

Now Priscilla did draw her dagger, the sharp blade glimmering in the light as she dropped her helmet and whirled around to point it at him. “Give them back!” she snarled, her lips curled and teeth bared like a snarling wolf.

Gunnar didn't even flinch at the dagger pointed at him, his attention on the brittle notes as he held them high up out of Priscilla's reach. “What is this?” he asked, flipping through one page after another. He frowned down at them, eyes squinting from beneath a shaggy mane of brown hair. “This a book?”

Priscilla gritted her teeth, dropping her dagger and stepping up to Gunnar as she tried to jump and snatch the notes from his hand, but only caught air as he lifted them out of the way. “This has nothing to do with you! Give them back if you value keeping your organs inside your body!”

Taking a step back, Gunnar selected a sheet of paper from the collection and held it out for Priscilla to see. “What does this say?” he asked her calmly, his interest seemingly genuine. 

Priscilla stared at the sheet, looking over the neat lines of Ashfeld and Wu Lin script side by side, marred by the damage of the fire that had almost caused her mission to quiet literally go up in smoke. Then she looked up at Gunnar, seeing that his question was no joke or a ruse to get her to divulge more then she wanted to, and she realized why the Viking's curiosity seemed so innocent. 

“Whats the matter? Can't you read it yourself?” she spat, not bothering to hold her tongue just to spare a barbarian's feelings.

“No,” Gunnar retorted, somewhere between shrouded hurt and feigned indifference, “I know the runes of protection and of strength, but I never saw the point of learning the words of my enemies. My axe carries a stern message for me just fine.”

The very idea of being ignorant to an enemies customs, language and written word was totally bizarre to Priscilla. As a Peacekeeper she had been trained to learn everything she could about the people of Valkenheim and the Myre, and recently the Wu Lin. The better you knew your enemy the easier it was to defeat them. “Are you not the son of a Jarl? Did he not see to it that you were educated growing up?”

Gunnar shrugged, an almost proud smile sliding across his lips. “It didn't take. My path was always to travel the wilds of my homeland. Reading and politics were always more to Herleif's liking. Now answer the question, woman.”

Priscilla's grip tightened around her the grip of her dagger as she snarled. “What do you think they are, you hairy giant? They're notes from my family. All I have left from that fire.” She watched carefully for Gunnar's reaction. If he could believe her story once then perhaps she could keep it going so long as she kept her facts straight. Coal seemed willing enough to play along with her, so at least the both of them could put up a defense together if Gunnar continued to stick his nose where it didn't belong. 

Unfortunately though Gunnar didn't seem totally convinced. “Oh not this again,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes before looking through the notes again, “Herleif may not care to wonder what you two are up to, but do not believe that I am not wise to your Loki tricks.” 

Now it was Gunnar who was revealing more then he probably meant to with his casual remarks. Not only had he revealed that Jarl Herleif was more concerned with other affairs then her and Coal's disappearance during the attack, but also that Gunnar couldn't tell the difference between Ashfeld script and Wu Lin. Both were there written clear as day on the pieces of paper, but to the illiterate Viking it was all gibberish, and so Priscilla had a better chance of getting away with her ruse. Changing tactics, she tried to appeal to the emotional side he had shown back at the warehouse, hoping that if it worked once it could work again.

“Please, Gunnar,” she asked much more softly this time, her prickly demeanor deflating to forlorn anguish with practiced ease, “This whole ordeal has been drawn out and more painful then any physical wound I could endure. I beg you, torment me no longer and let me hold onto what little of my family that I have left.” Looking up at Gunnar with wide blue eyes, she allowed carefully crafted expressions of hope and empathy cross her face. 

“Come on man, have a heart,” chimed in Coal who had appeared in the doorway to the storeroom, rubbing his stomach tenderly. His voice echoed lightly from beneath his helmet, which was placed firmly over his head once again.

Gunnar frowned deeply, his mustache drooping over his lips as he looked between the two Knights. “Grouping up on a man like this hardly seems fair,” he grumbled. Cocking a brow down at Priscilla, he let out a low rumble as he fiddled with the papers in his hands. “Fine,” he said, holding the notes out with a flick of his wrist, “Take this as a kindness, Peacekeeper, but this does not mean I trust you. Know that I will be keeping an eye on the two of you from now on, hmm?” Touching a finger just under his eye, he gave Priscilla a grim look.

Priscilla quickly snatched away the notes before Gunnar could change his mind, carefully folding them up without letting them crumble and break before slipping them into a pouch on her belt. “Who said anything about trust, Raider? But still, you have my thanks.”

Stepping out from the doorway, Coal stooped down and picked up Priscilla's helmet to hand it to her. “Yes, yes, much thanks all around. Three times over and all the rest. Now if you will excuse us, I think I hear the call to prayer and we must be off.” Taking Priscilla by the arm, he turned and tried to guide her away from the over bearing barbarian.

They hadn't taken two steps before Gunnar's strong hands clapped down on both of their shoulders. “Nonsense. Why waste your words when there is drinking to be done?” he laughed heartily.

Priscilla glanced up over her shoulder and hissed at the giant Viking. “Surely you jest?”

“Not at all,” Gunnar winked, “Keeping you both under watch does not mean I intend to miss out on my ale. So, until we find ourselves rulers of the Walled City or feasting in the golden hall, consider us all to be the best of drinking companions! You look like a man who can go for a few rounds, eh?” he grinned at the Conqueror.

Coal hung his head and groaned. “Do I have to drink out of a horn?” Gunnar simply laughed, clapping them both on the shoulders again, directing them both forward down the hall. 

Priscilla remained quiet as she was marched off to guzzle unseemly amounts of alcohol at the whims of a wild man. As annoying as that might be, it was a small price to pay to how things could have gone. The prospect of having Gunnar looming over her shoulder at any given moment was hardly ideal, but fortunately the man's skills as a hot headed Raider did not carry over into tact or slyness. If he insisted on proclaiming each and every one of his intentions then she would at least be able to stay a few steps a head of him at any turn. If she wasn't able to outsmart a lumbering oafish barbarian at this game, then she had no business calling herself a true Peacekeeper.

There was just no substitute for good spy craft.


	16. Bloody Fate

Herleif made his way through the streets of Eitrivatnen, seeking something to lighten his bad mood after the way Gunnar had left the stables. His war gear and weapons had been cleaned and set aside, and now he sought either refreshment or distraction before he turned his attention towards making preparations for leaving the city. Unfortunately he couldn't shake the feeling that he would be leaving Eitrivatnen with more problems to contend with then when he arrived. The feud with Ivar the Red was weighing particularly heavily on him at the moment, and so he made up his mind to seek answers from the person who had helped set him on this path in the first place.

As he passed under a decorated archway that stretched over the street, he found Ragnar and Ragna sitting at a table together, shrouded under a canopy in front of a building that might have once been an inn. He knew then that he was on the right path to finding Helge, as they were never far from the Shaman who's life was intertwined with theirs. Currently they were hunched over the table, elbows planted firmly upon the wooden surface as they tightly grasped hands with each other. The thews of their tanned arms bulged and strained as each struggled to overpower the other, their teeth bared and snarling like wolves, and eyes alight with primal fury. At first glance one would think that they were sworn enemies locked in terrible battle rather then siblings having a simple contest of strength.

“Ragnar, Ragna. How fares the score?” Herleif said in greeting as he approached. Wild as the Berserker twins were, they were without a doubt two of his best warriors, and he did not wish to just pass them by without acknowledging their presence. “Does Ragna still boast the most victor-”

He was cut off by a sharp and frightening snarl from both Berserkers, their fiery eyes flashing angrily at him as he got too close, like guard dogs snapping at a stranger. Even as they still clasped hands between them, the table shook as they bolted upright and took a threatening step towards their Jarl.

Herleif swiftly turned without breaking stride, giving no glance back as he moved on and waved at them over his shoulder. “Right then. My fault, should have known better to interrupt. As you were!” Once they were far enough behind him he let out a low groan of frustration, but he soon heard the thunk of a hand hitting wood, followed by Ragna's angry cursing as Ragnar gave a fiendish laugh. Both sounds were enough to make the hairs on the back of Herleif's neck stand on end as he walked away. 

Now keeping up a quick pace, he found Helge not far ahead in an open square close to the villa that he had taken for his own. The space was wide and welcoming, with a large crystal clear pool in the center from which a high column rose etched with the winding pictures of Ashfeld's past victories. Herleif was surprised that they had enough to cover the entire column, it stood so tall, and partially wondered if one or three of the depictions were made up. As large as the space was there were few people around, only some of his Bilrost warriors milling about in groups under the shade of the buildings that surrounded the square. Perhaps it was the sight of Helge working her arm into the butchered body of a man that kept them at bay.

There was still color in the dead man's cheeks, telling Herleif that he had just been killed recently. His naked body was slit open from groin to neck, the rib cage hacked open and pulled apart in a bloody display, with long trails of guts strewn about like slop thrown out for the pigs. Helge crouched low over the man and was elbow deep into the his chest cavity with her knife, her red lips spread into a happy smile and bared teeth dripping with blood. 

As if the sight of a small young woman butchering a person so serenely wasn't shocking enough, a second man lay helpless not far away. He was curled up on the ground, naked under the bright sun with a balled up cloth gagging his mouth, and his wrists bound behind his back. His legs and feet were free, but the tendons along the back of his heels had been slashed apart, leaving blood to pool between the cobblestones. The steady whimpering coming from the man's gagged lips was unsettling to say the least, the sound of a man who realized just how helpless he was before his death. Herleif gave him a pitying glance as he stopped a good distance away, but knew better then to come between a Shaman and her sacrificial lamb, as it were.

“Where did you find these?” Herleif frowned, gesturing between the dead man and the living one to catch Helge's attention. Her round bright eyes flicked up to him with a look almost childlike in nature, until she spit something dark and gristly from her mouth to disappear among purplish red guts.

Helge gave an amused little chuckle, grinning widely at Herleif with a smile that should have been full of white teeth if it were not for all the blood coating her mouth. “I managed to snag them before they were put to the sword. Now they serve a greater purpose. The voices tell me such wonderful things when I spill their blood, Herleif. Such wonderful things. They tell me of the death of our enemies, and of wars and glories both long in the past and far into the future.” 

Herleif gave a little nod, scarcely able to imagine what terrible visions and haunting words Helge experienced while wallowing with strange voices in the blood of living sacrifices. “And do they have anything useful to tell you about our fight to come? Do they say if we shall have victory at the Walled City?”

The gory Shaman simply shrugged, and hardly seemed interested in the question as she looked over the the ruined body like a proud craftsman examining a half finished project. “The gods and voices are fickle in what tales they share. They tell of such glorious things only to heighten our hunger for battle and blood, while keeping our own fates to themselves till the day that they fall upon us like a hammer's blow. Keeping us in the dark makes it so much more fun for them to watch our miserable lives unfold,” she said with a wink, touching a red finger to her lips as if to hush him.

“Is that so?” Herleif grumbled, no less enthused by her evident restraint, “Speaking of the gods and voices, I wanted you to ask them some questions for me.” 

Helge instantly perked up, clapping her hands together and splattering blood over the bones adorning her neck. She spread her arms wide and gestured at the bound man before her. “Well then, how fortunate that I still have enough left to beseech those beyond the veil! Ask your questions then, Herleif. Go on, go on!”

Herleif squatted down before her, clasping his hands together before him. “Back in Bilrost, when I came to you seeking council, the gods,” he stopped when Helge shot him a withering evil look, and for a split second he questioned everything he knew about just who it was that he was seeking help from, then tried again, “...the voices, spoke of three enemies I would face upon this raid.”

“Yes, yes, I remember Herleif. I was there after all,” chuckled the Shaman as she toyed with a protruding rib from the corpse, pulling it back and letting it jerk back into place by the connecting muscle tissue. 

Narrowing his eyes, Herleif was not entirely certain that was true, clearly remembering the frightening experience where Helge had become seemingly possessed by the voices her that plagued her mind. “Of course. The voices first spoke of an enemy dancing upon their own flaming pyre. I think it is obvious who that was, given our time here in Ashfeld so far.”

Helge tilted her head back and stuck her tongue out between her teeth as she hummed with laughter. “Oh yes. The voices beyond like to believe that their words are deep and shrouded in mystery. They jabber on like village drunks that let fly their tongues, spouting riddles that sound like nonsense to those too eager for the answers to be revealed. Jabber, jabber, jabber...” Mimicking a speaking mouth with her hand, her fingertips and thumb made a sharp sticking sound each time they touched from all the blood. 

“I shall take your word for it. My question is what of our other two foes? Have we yet to cross paths with them, or are they already here in our midst among the horde?” Herleif continued.

This gave the Shaman pause, and she stared back at him with an inquisitive look. “Careful Herleif. Trying to unveil a message from beyond before the appropriate time is a good way to seal one's doom. Many have met a terrible fate simply by seeking such things, when patience and good sense would have delivered them from such peril.”

“This matter seems too perilous to leave it be, Helge.” 

Helge squinted at him. “Truly? But you were so cautious before. Even after you came to me I was not entirely sure that you would commit to this raid. As a matter of fact you did not, until you spoke with Erik face to face at the Hallowed Bastion. What has changed?”

“Now is not the time to be cautious.” Herleif said quickly, feeling somewhat on guard against the Shaman's words. He had come seeking answers, not to be questioned on his motives or the decisions he had already made and could not change now. “The mood here is tense enough already, and I would rather know who my enemies are before I meet them.”

Helge's eyes narrowed, then went wide with sudden realization. “Herleif, are you afraid?” she asked him, her shoulders slumping as if the notion disappointed her to the core, “You know that this is not something you can run from, Jarl. No man or woman can escape the fate set for them by the Norns. Are you telling me that you seek to reveal yours rather then meet it bravely in due time?”

Herleif's eyes flashed angrily, his hand snapping up as he pointed an accusing finger at Helge. “Do not give me that talk,” he growled, “I have had enough of people questioning my commitment to this raid, to our traditions, and I will not hear of it coming from my own warriors.” He stood up as his temper flared, beginning to pace about in annoyance. “Time and again I have led us without hesitation against our enemy upon the river and across this accursed lake, and I have even fought side by side with men that I do not fully trust. What is it about my leadership that makes people question my ability to see this raid through to the end?” 

Cocking her head to the side, Helge gave him a look as if the answer was clear. “Because you do not live to die like you are supposed to.” Herleif snapped around to glare at her, but Helge simply gave him that knowing smile that said she could see right through him no matter how hard he tried to hide his concerns. “You are not a man who truly longs for the elation of Valhalla after death, not when you feel that have so much to live for. To some that is enough to find your conviction lacking, my friend. That you would seek peace when it is time to fight. That you would wish for the warmth of home while in the fire of battle. You know that this is not our way.”

Herleif gave her a long hard stare, his hands balling up into tight fists at his sides. There was no need for her to explain herself further, as the truth of her words hung heavy on his heart. “The path to Valhalla is one that has been laid before me since birth, and I walk it gladly. But I will not apologize for cherishing what joy I have in life while my heart still beats. Should a man feel shame for loving his family? For wanting to see his children grow and to become old at his wife's side rather then die on some distant battlefield far from home?”

“Who am I to say?” Helge shrugged, looking back down at the dead body before her, “In the end it doesn't matter what we want. We all live and we all die. The voices will clamor for blood all the same.” For a moment she got a far away look in her eyes, as if a sudden thought forced its way to the forefront of her mind to tear at her heart. Her bloody fingers squeezed down on the pale flesh of the corpse, leaving red claw marks in their wake.

“Will you entreat the voices for answers to my question or not?” Herleif demanded, having no more desire to discuss the futility of fighting against fate.

Helge's head snapped up, her eyes searching about before focusing on him and gave a tight lipped smile. “Of course I will, Herleif. Who am I to refuse my Jarl?” Slapping her hands on the corpse, she pushed herself up to her feet and strode over to the bound man that still lived, ignoring his muffled cries as she grabbed him by his hair and harshly dragged him closer to his dead companion. The man whimpered through his gag, thrashing about with his hands fastened tightly behind his back, but Helge simply put a knee down on his shoulder to keep him still as she drew her curved knife.

Herleif watched on without care, ignoring the man's fear as he gave voice to his thoughts. “I want to know if Ivar the Red or the Peacekeeper, Priscilla Arentii, have anything to do with the vision you saw before. If they are the knife at my back, or the enemy marching unseen, then I would know of it now before they have the chance to strike.”

“You suspect Ivar of treachery even after he took a blood oath with you?” Helge asked, taking her sacrifice by the neck and holding him down.

Herleif crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. “Ivar has always looked to our lands with a jealous eye to try and increase his hold along the coast. Our families have rarely ever seen eye to eye through the years, and I do not expect one night of ceremony to wipe everything clean.” There was history between Ivar's family and his. Old feuds and bad blood that always seemed to find new meaning from one generation to the next. Always there seemed to be duels and skirmishes fought over the border between their holds, or over honor and so-called insults that could never be forgiven for one reason or another. It was more then enough to give Herleif pause despite the oath he and Ivar had taken under Erik's order. 

Yet even as Herleif explained his position there was a tightness in his chest, a dark feeling of shame that he might question an oath made before the gods. This was dangerous ground he was treading on by asking these questions, and from the sour look Helge gave him she knew it as well.

“And what of the Peacekeeper?” asked the Shaman, “Where does she fit into this speculation?”

“Call it a hunch. A woman of her order might be more then she seems,” Herleif said gruffly, “Gunnar is keeping an eye on her for now, but it would not hurt to have an edge on her if need be.”

Helge held her inquisitive gaze on him for a moment longer, then suddenly broke out into a wide smile as she touched the tip of her curved knife to the captive's belly. “Well then, if that is all you want why waste anymore time?” The helpless man let out a muffled shriek through his gag as the sharp metal pressed against his skin, bringing Helge's attention snapping back to him. Together they locked eyes, his wide and watery with unadulterated fear, hers bright with absolute delight and excitement. “Hush now, little lamb,” she hissed at him, running her red hand along his cheek as if to give false comfort, “Your pitiful struggle is over, and in the end I have given your wasted life meaning.” Leaning down to him, Helge gently pressed her bloody lips to the man's forehead, giving a parting kiss before whispering in his ear, “Hear the voices with me now. Hear how they cry out and clamor for this. Be at peace, and we will slake their lust, together.”

The knife plunged deep into the Pyre man's stomach, and began to cut from naval to neck.

Herleif watched on in grim silence as dark blood flowed from the wound around the knife hilt and Helge's hand, dripping over pale flesh like red rivers cutting through snow. He listened as the man gave a pained gasp through his gag, eyes going wide before snapping shut as the pain shot through him. His naked body twitched and spasmed with each harsh cut Helge made to slice his flesh and muscle open, her cuts growing more aggressive with excitement until the blade met the bones of his rib cage. It was then that the gleeful Shaman withdrew the blade, dripping with the man's life blood, and let it drop clattering on the stones, only to then plunge her hand into the gaping hole she had made of his ruined stomach.

Over the course of his life Herleif had heard the death cries of many warriors as they suffered on the battlefield from terrible wounds, but the guttural retch of pain that came from the man was something that he knew would stay with him until the day he joined his ancestors in the golden hall. 

Helge forced her arm further and further, until she was elbow deep in the captive's body, laughing to herself as purplish guts slid up around her arm as she displaced them inside his belly. The man went rigid from the pain, every sinewy muscle and vein showing tense beneath his skin. Strangely it was nothing Herleif hadn't seen before. A live sacrifice was always used when entreating the gods, but this way seemed especially cruel rather then just parting a person's head from their shoulders with an axe, or slitting their throat to water the ground with blood. Herleif had no mind for watching people suffer needlessly, but if this was the way of gaining answers to his questions then he would not stand in the Shaman's way.

With a sudden and brutal shove of her arm, the dying man stiffened and gave a gurgled cry, his eyes shooting open and bulging wide at the sky above. They slowly rolled upward, showing only white cut with red veins, and his body began to twitch uncontrollably as blood bubbled from his lips around the gag. Helge sneered at him, her gaze pitiless and stern as her arm worked at something inside his chest. Then she let out a triumphant cry as her arm slid free with a gush of blood, her skin colored dark red from her fingers to bicep. Lifting her hand high above her head, a dark pulsing mass was clutched tightly in her grasp, dripping over her and the sacrifice both like cursed rain.

The man who had once been a brave Knight, however misguided and cruel, went limp upon the ground, barely even having enough air within his lungs to give out a last choking breath as he died. Helge shot up to her feet, staring at the still beating heart in her grasp as if it was worth more to her then all the treasure of Heathmoor. “Behold!” she cried out joyfully, her voice echoing in the bright square, “By this sacrifice the voices shall be heard!”

Herleif spared one last glance to the butchered man on the ground, but he was still and quiet now, nothing but a dead sack of meat like so many others. The part he had played in this ceremony was over, and his soul was of no more consequence to those of this realm. He looked back at Helge just as she was withdrawing some white powder from a pouch that hung at her belt. What it was he had no idea, but she covered the heart in it liberally. Then from another pouch she withdrew a dried mushroom, pale in color, and proceeded to pop it right into her mouth to chew. She did not swallow, seemingly keeping the chewed contents in her mouth before bringing the heart to her lips and baring her teeth like a ravenous beast to bite into it. Ripping off a chunk of the tough muscle, she chewed openly and swallowed before going back for more.

Not wanting to interrupt Helge while her mouth was full, Herleif watched on silently as he wondered how long it would take before she was communing with the voices beyond the veil. He didn't have to wait long to find out.

On the third bite of the heart Helge froze, her entire body going rigid as whatever magic she had conjured began to take hold. Suddenly she gave a gasping retch around the heart in her mouth, her body convulsing like she would be sick. Letting the heart fall to the ground with a wet splat, she fell to her knees and clutched at her stomach as if in pain. Her breathing was coming on in deep, panting grunts, and Herleif was stunned to wonder if something had gone horribly wrong. “Helge?” he muttered, taking a step towards her as if to intervene, though truthfully he had no idea as to how. She gave him no answer, except for giving another retch that saw pink froth sputter from her mouth before she went limp and rolled over onto her back. 

Herleif stared on, blinking stupidly as he watched Helge begin to spasm and twitch, her eyes rolling up into her skull beneath fluttering lashes. It was like watching the butchery all over again, as if the dead man was taking his revenge upon his killer from beyond the grave now. Helge's body was trapped in an endless attack of violent spasms, her back arching and limbs contorting in horrible ways. The shaved sides of her head scraped upon the cobblestones of the street as she thrashed about, leaving red scars among the little dark hairs of her scalp, and more pink froth bubble from her lips.

Was this supposed to happen? Herleif had no idea. He had never seen a ritual go like this before. The Shaman's ways were unpredictable at best, but more and more she seemed to give her council through new and terrifying means. Finally he could stand by no longer, and rushed to Helge's side. Kneeling helpless beside her, he wasn't even sure what could be done as she choked and sputtered an all the foam bubbling in her throat. “Dammit all! Helge! Helge, wake up!” Feeling at a total loss, he opted to pick her head up off of the hard ground and cradle her in his arms. It was out of sheer desperation that he quickly began to slap her cheek next, willing her to wake up and be free of this torment. “Thor's ass, what dark seiðr is this? Help! Somebody get help!” 

A few of the warriors gathered around the edge of the square came forward, but none looked too eager to get roped into whatever foul thing the Shaman had brought upon herself. Herleif would have none of that though, waving his arm at them to act. “Go! Get a healer! Anyone who could help!” The warriors stared and gaped at him, their attention caught more by the horrifying sight of the butchered sacrifice and the writhing woman then his command, so Herleif let his anger and frustration fly to get them moving. “Just go, damn you! Or I'll plunge you into the lake myself with rocks in your boots!”

The warriors ran off without a glance back, but even as they moved out of the square Herleif could still hear the sound of boots running over stone. He didn't even have time to look before he was hit by a solid weight from the side, giving a cry as he was knocked away from Helge and tossed onto his back. It was only when the world stopped spinning around him that he saw the Berserker twins taking his place as they knelt at the Shaman's side. How their terrible talents might help in this situation, he had no idea.

“What did you do to her!?” snarled Ragna angrily, her face contorted into a visage of rage and fear. She picked Helge up into her arms, cradling her protectively as she tried to shake her awake with Ragnar looking on helplessly over her shoulder. “Helge! Wake up!” Ragna pleaded desperately, her voice cracking uncharacteristically with fear, “No... you do not belong to them Helge! They do not get to take you yet!”

Ragnar's gaze snapped over to Herleif, all trace of respect and admiration for his Jarl gone as he growled. “What happened? What seiðr did you have her conjure?”

Herleif stared back angrily as he got up to his knees, not liking the accusing tone in his warrior's voice, but now was not the time to reprimand him. “She did this herself! She ate the man's heart, covered in some powder. I have no idea what it is, but she went about it without fear.”

“Stupid woman!” Ragna seethed, but the look in her eyes held nothing but worry. Helge was going still in her arms now, her hands frozen in a contorted grasp as if clawing at something unseen. One eye still twitched while the other was half closed, and the frothing had slowed to leave her chin and neck coated in a sticky wet sheen of watery blood. Ragna snarled again, then looked to Herleif in a complete loss of what to do. “She is too wild, too stupid to know her limits. She will have killed herself for this!” she wailed.

For a moment Herleif had hoped that everything would turn out alright, that somehow Helge was still in control of whatever torment assailed her body and mind. Seeing the fear in Ragnar and Ragna now though made his heart go cold. If there was anyone who knew the depths and intricacies of her strange work it was them, and to see them so lost now put him into action again. “Get her to the water,” he ordered, quickly moving to grab one arm and drag Helge to the pool next to them. For all their fear the Berserkers were quick to move with him, picking Helge up and bringing her to the edge of the water. A gnawing fear gripped at Herleif on whether or not this would help, but to do nothing would only yield one result. “Set her down. Gently...” Helge was going pale now, more so then usual as Herleif cleaned her of blood as he splashed water onto her face. The crystal clear pool became murky with red clouds as he splashed her again and again, trying desperately to wake her as the twins watched on.

“Its not enough. We need to try harder!” Ragnar snapped suddenly, shoving Herleif aside and taking Helge by her collar. He hauled her limp body forward, only to dunk her head completely beneath the water and thrash her about.

Ragna gave a harsh cry and grasped her brother by the back of his armor, forcing him to pull Helge up and splashing them all in the process. “You idiot! How is that going to do anything but drown her?”

Dropping Helge on the pools edge, Ragnar sprung up and shoved Ragna off only to get right up in her face as he snarled. “We have to try something! We can't just let her die!”

“And you think this will help?” Ragna snapped, shoving him away. 

“Ragna...” Herleif muttered, looking down at Helge's still form.

“At least I am doing something! You always freeze whenever she crosses into the beyond!” Ragnar bit back, “It's always up to me to bring her back!”

Herleif held his hand over Helge's parted lips, feeling nothing. “Ragnar...”

Ragna shoved her brother again, getting in his face this time. “When are you going to learn that what she does is beyond us? Her power comes from more then just the gods! Every time she goes, it is by her will alone that she comes back. All we can do is call out and hope that she hears us!”

“You worthless weakling! You claim that you know her heart best, but it is you who would just abandon her to the voices!” Ragnar yelled.

Herleif closed his eyes, sighing deeply as disrepair flooded through him. Taking the knife that Helge had dropped, he put it into her hand and closed her fingers around it the best he could. “Quiet,” he said softly as the Berserkers argued, feeling his anger begin rise.

“How dare you!” Ragna screeched, cracking her clenched fist against her brother's cheek to send him reeling, “What do you know of our love? You are nothing but a prick for her to enjoy when the mood fancies her!” 

Ragnar sprang back, working his aching jaw before lunging at his sister, hands reaching for her throat. “Fuck you! I mean as much to her as you do, you're just too jealous to admit it!” The two Berserkers threw themselves at each other then, hands grabbing at throats and hair in a struggle to bring the other down.

“Enough!” Herleif roared, his temper erupting as he sprang up and rounded on the two squabbling siblings. They both froze at the command in his voice, falling back into line as warriors heeding their Jarl. But as quickly as Herleif's temper flared, so too did it fade away, turning his head back down towards Helge. “She's gone,” he whispered, shoulders sagging as he frowned down at the still body, “She is gone.”

Ragnar blinked slowly at Herleif as he tried to process what he had been told, while Ragna gazed down upon her lover with anger slowly giving way to despair over her face. “No...” she whispered, her voice sounding the most meek that Herleif had ever heard.

“I'm sorry,” Herleif said, knowing that the sadness he felt was nothing compared to what Ragnar and Ragna knew in that moment.

“No,” Ragnar frowned, almost denying what was clearly in front of him, “She always comes back. Ragna, tell him. Tell him she always comes back from the voices.”

Ragna ignored him, pulling herself away from his limp grasp and sinking to her knees beside Helge's body. “No!” she wailed, her hands hovering just above Helge as if afraid to touch her and feel the warmth fade away, “No, no, no! You can't go! You can't leave us!” she cried.

A wave of regret and responsibility hit Herleif like an avalanche. The idea that this was all his fault clawed and sank into his mind, causing his heart to ache at the misfortune he had caused for selfish gain. “I am sorry,” he gasped again, blinking quickly to try and hide the hot sting of tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “She... she worked so quickly. I had no idea what she was doing. I never thought such seiðr would lead to this.”

If he had thought that confession would turn two of his most loyal warriors against him, he found that neither of them reacted to his words at all. If anything they acted as if he wasn't even there. Unable to look upon Helge's body any longer, Ragna stood up and turned to throw herself into her brother's arms. Where a moment ago they had been quarreling like wild beasts, now they embraced each other as one heart who had lost another. Ragna buried her face into the crook of her brother's neck, refusing to look behind her again while Ragnar could not tear his eyes away from still body of their lover. 

Herleif felt completely useless, more of a burden to the twins for the grief he had caused. “My friends,” he began hesitantly, “You should not be here. I will see that-”

“Have you not done enough already!?” Ragna snapped, her anger turning viciously at her Jarl. She still clung to Ragnar desperately, but from the way she shook it was almost as if her brother was holding her back from lashing out in anger. 

Herleif frowned, his brow crestfallen and unable to meet the Berserker's eyes. “I only meant to...”

“To what? Have her speak with voices that wish for nothing but blood and death?” Ragna snapped, “You know nothing of madness, Herleif. You know nothing of what it means to be touched by the power of the gods!”

“What is that supposed to mean? Herleif growled, his tone swiftly turning dark, “Are you saying that I do not hold the gods favor?”

Ragna pulled herself from Ragnar's arms, taking a step towards Herleif and glaring up at him, “I am saying that you do not know what it means to be Odin blessed, to feel the power of the gods coursing through your veins. You are just a man, stumbling your way to the fate awaiting you and hoping you live a life worth remembering along the way.” Her eyes narrowed angrily at him, her voice dropping to a threatening whisper. “You worry and you hesitate. Look what happens when you try to reveal more then what the gods are willing to show. If only you had been brave, Warlord. What violent victory we might have wrought against our enemy with Helge still by our side.”

Herleif glowered back at Ragna. A part of him wished to put her in her place, to refute her claim and even challenge her with steel if she pressed the issue. In a way her remarks cut directly to the fear of what was being said about his commitment to the raid. But he was her Jarl, and no matter how hurt she was he would still command her respect. Death was a part of any warriors life, and he would not allow any person's grief to dispute his right to rule. 

Of course that did not mean that her words stung him any less.

“Maybe... maybe she's just speaking with them,” Ragnar interjected before Herleif could speak, trying to makes some sense of the terrible situation. His gaze still fixed on Helge, as if oblivious to the animosity brewing beside him. “You know, speaking with the voices. She might still come back... couldn't she?”

Ragna let out a groan of disgust as she turned back to her brother, finding the very idea of hope revolting at the moment. “Don't be stupid, you shit-brained mongrel. There is no coming back from where she has gone.”

“How do you know?” Ragnar shot back, licking his lips and fidgeting as he clung to this one idea that this might not be the end. “You said it yourself, her power is beyond any of us! What if she is on her way back to us even now?”

“Ragnar, it is too late,” Herleif sighed, “She is gone.”

Ragnar shook his head, a shaky and fearful smile curling at the corners of his lips. “No... I don't believe it. She will be back. You just wait and see. Any moment now she'll be right back with great and terrible visions from the beyond.”

Ragna threw herself at her twin, gripping him by his armor and pulling him in close as she bared her teeth. “Listen to me Ragnar. She is gone. Dead. The voices have claimed her now, taken all that she is. Get this through your thick skull, you fool.” Wringing her hands against him, she took a deep breath as if it pained her to admit what she didn't want to face. “She is gone, brother, and she is never coming back!”

Helge's body twitched abruptly as she arched up from the stones and sprang to life. Her eyes snapped open as dark blood bubbled from between her lips and she rolled over to loudly vomit into the pool. The deathly pale Shaman sucked in a shuddering breath, only to gag and regurgitate more bile to darken the waters of the fountain, leaving her red faced and panting as she clung to the pool's edge.

Ragna immediately let out a shriek of shock and horror and elation before falling to Helge's side. “Helge! My love! Are you alright?” she clamored, pawing at Helge's heaving shoulders and pale face to get a glimpse at her. “Speak to me. My love, tell me you are alright...” Helge did not answer right away, instead vomiting more chunks of heart into the pool before she was finally able to turn to Ragna and give her a trembling, blood dripping smile. That was enough for Ragna, who let out a gleeful laugh before pulling Helge to her and peppering her face with frenzied kisses.

Herleif and Ragnar both gave great sighs of relief, with Ragnar covering his face and running his hands down against his cheeks as he felt all the pain of loss leaving him. “Odin be praised! I knew this wasn't the end! I told you. You didn't want to listen, but I told you she would be back!”

“And we will think better of your council forever more. Thank the gods,” Herleif laughed with relief, likewise running a hand over his head in stunned amazement. Seeing Ragna smother the dazed Shaman with affection, and in the process getting her own face covered in a mess of blood, he reached down and gently touched the woman's shoulder to bring her away. “Give her some space. Let her breathe.”

Ragna seemed hesitant to part with Helge, but for now at least she was too happy and relieved to fight back, and so let her lover sit on her own by the pool. Helge blinked slowly, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as if getting adjusted to the bright light of the afternoon sun again. Then she lifted her hand and looked at the dagger clutched in her fist, giving a hoarse laugh before glancing around at all of them. “Did you all think that I would not be coming back?” she mused.

“I told them, Helge! I told them that you would be back!” Ragnar laughed, punching his fist in the air as if they had all won some great victory.

Helge sucked in a lung full of air and held it for a moment, closing her eyes and letting the breath out slowly to relish the feeling. When her eyes opened again, her gaze was far away, as if she was somehow still held in whatever realm she had traveled to while she no longer breathed. “Now is not the time for us to part ways, my darlings. There is much more blood letting to be done before then.”

That remark seemed to take the wind out of Ragna's sails, the smile falling from her lips as she leaned closer to Helge. “What did you see, Helge?” she whispered, almost too afraid to hear, “What secrets did the voices reveal to you?”

“I saw many things, and was told much,” Helge said slyly, looking to Ragna, “Of death and sacrifice, of high walls brought low and a fire at the heart of Heathmoor that will never be quenched. Dark is the path that lays before us, and I fear that we will not have the strength to face it.” Setting down her knife, she gently reached out and took Ragna's hand in hers, squeezing it affectionately. “But of the questions asked by our Jarl,” her eyes turned up towards Herleif, a hard frown fixed upon her face, “I saw nothing.”

Herleif's face fell to reflect the Shaman's, and he felt the eyes of the twins upon him as well as he pondered her meaning. “Nothing? How is that possible? You told me there were two more enemies to face upon the volcano.”

Slowly Helge's frown turned into a pitying smile, her head cocking to the side ever so slightly like a mother finding amusement in her child's ignorance. “And you asked if either was your rival Jarl or the Peacekeeper who was once our enemy. For you I sought the answers, and I tell you, of them I saw nothing.” Her amusement grew the longer she took in Herleif's confused look, a bit of bloody spittle blowing from her lips as she laughed.

Herleif scowled, the relief he felt at Helge's well being once again giving way to annoyance. “So... They are not the ones, and our enemies still lurk somewhere unknown?”

Helge slowly nodded. “I told you, Herleif. The voices enjoy watching you fulfill your fate all on your own. You should have thought better on your questions before asking. As it stands,” she gave a deep groan from her belly as she sat up and arched her back, “I will not be entreating them on your behalf again anytime soon.”

Herleif's face grew hot with frustration and anger, and he was about to openly chastise Helge for scaring him so soundly with her Loki's trick only to come back with nothing to tell. But before he could the group of warriors he had sent to find help returned with one of the healers of his clan. “What terrible timing,” he called to them as they all stood and gawked at Helge who had been in the death throes when they had left. “I will hope that if I should ever need a healer upon a day, they will be as close as my own shadow so that I might live.” The warriors all shuffled awkwardly in embarrassment at being admonished by their Jarl.

Helge smacked her lips together, sticking out her tongue for the bad taste of bile lingering in her mouth. She was about to get up when a glance over Ragna's shoulder caught her attention on the dead man who's heart she had sacrificed. Pushing herself up onto her feet with Ragna's help, she frowned down at the bloody body and sneered. “Useless cur,” she growled, voice dripping with spite. Then working her jaw, she spat a thick glob of phlegm and blood to splatter across the dead man's face. Helge gave a grunt of disgust, and squinted up at the sun in annoyance. “What a waste of a perfectly good sacrifice.”

Wrapping herself around Ragna's arm, Helge clung to her for support as she moved to take her leave of the corpses and bloody square. Herleif noticed her leaving and stepped up to stop her. “So that's it then? We are no closer to knowing who is a threat to us then before?”

Helge simply shrugged, but reached up to stroke Herleif's beard with her bloody hand, snickering as he recoiled. “The voices have spoken, and as it turns out they have nothing to tell. But, I do have one little glimpse of fate that I may depart upon you, if you wish to know.” Her smile was more pleasant now, teasing even if it hadn't been for all the blood. Beckoning him closer, she shrugged Ragna away before leaning up to whisper into his ear. “What hope is to be found when brother turns on brother? What victory can be had when gold is not the prize? The mountain of rust will not be defeated, but if we are to see home again we must fight to defend that which we have come to conquer.”

Herleif listened intently, trying to workout the meaning of Helge's words on his own. Even as he listened though his frustration only grew. What was the point in knowing one's fate when the answers only ever came in the form of strange riddles? He already regretted trying to unfold the mysteries of the first vision, he would not waste time trying to make sense of the second. 

“Thank you Helge, but I think for now I will simply keep my sword close and my shield at the ready. You have taught me a valuable lesson today in seeking too much from the gods.”

Helge's brows jumped as she smiled, and having no more to tell, took Ragna's arm again. “Do what you will, Jarl. I for one will be jumping into the lake for a refreshing bath, and bringing these two with me for a little celebration of life.” Grinning wickedly, she ran her hand up Ragna's arm to her strong shoulder, the two of them making a bloody mess of each other as they pressed together. 

Herleif shook his head, and gestured for them to be away. After everything that had happened he was in no mood to suffer further through their lovers antics. Helge and Ragna slipped passed him giggling to each other, leaving Ragnar to approach and clap both hands down on his shoulders. “Lets not do this again, shall we?” he said, giving Herleif a pointed look. Herleif pressed his lips tight together and sighed, not one to appreciate being dictated to by his warriors. But he nodded his head and patted Ragnar's shoulder in kind, inclined to agree with the wild man on the matter.

The longer he could go without experiencing one of Helge's terrible fits, the better.

With the day nearly wasted and only a hot temper to show for it, Herleif stalked through the streets of Eitrivatnen in search of a quiet spot where he could be alone with his thoughts. He could return to the villa, but then he would feel too inclined to work on the preparations for leaving the harbor, and he was not in a mood to run into Gunnar again if he had returned after pestering the Lion Flame Knights. He wanted somewhere he could sit and pray to Odin on his own terms, without the frustration of dealing with a Shaman's cryptic words.

A cool horn of ale would not go amiss either, but for now every open tavern or watering hole he found was filled with warriors from all three clans still reveling in their recent victory. More than a few times warriors called out for him to join in a drink and a saga telling, but he politely declined and kept walking. He felt aimless, but for now at least that was not so much a concern as long as he remained alone.

It was only when he had walked closer to the lake that he noticed groups of golden Sea-Eagle clan warriors marching through the streets in tight groups, spears and shields in hand. To his knowledge the city was well and firmly secured of any threat after the incident outside the church, and any of the citizens that remained in Eitrivatnen were under constant guard by Erik's men near the citadel. He paused for a moment to watch as a group of Sea-Eagle warriors kicked in the door of a warehouse and stormed in, all ten men moving with purpose. Through the few windows in the building's facade he could see them moving throughout the building, and even hear them as they tore through furniture and broke open more doors. It was clear to him that they were searching for something, but for what he did not know.

This realization did not sit well with him, having not known that Erik was searching for anything other then treasure and hostages within the walls of Eitrivatnen, and he already had plenty of both now. It seemed that the Golden Jarl was keeping even more from him now, which only added to his anger and annoyance. It frustrated him to no end to think that his dedication to the traditions of their people were called into question by his hesitation to join in with these selfish Jarls, but with each new day he was presented with new reasons to feel justified in his caution.

Rounding a new corner in search of some sense of solace that continued to escape him, he nearly ran head-long into Skuld as she made her own way down the street. She dodged out of the way just before he could barrel over her, but rather then take offense to his lack of awareness she simply bowed her head in greeting before moving on. 

Herleif merely gave a half-hearted wave as she went by, barley recognizing her golden helmet and white garb until she was out of his sight. “Hold a moment, Valkyrie,” he called out as he spun around to stop her, but to his surprise Skuld was standing directly behind him as if she had been expecting him to stop all along. Herleif was struck dumb as he met those vibrant blue eyes staring back at him, the rest of her face completely hidden beneath her helmet, until he found his voice again. “Right. Is it done?” he asked her, his face falling into a dark scowl. Something in the back of his mind told him that this would be yet another question that would not see his mood improved that day. “Does my wife's father drink in the halls of Valhalla with the rest of his kin?”

Skuld's eyes glanced down to the seax hanging from her belt, taking the grip and pulling the blade free of it's scabbard. Once again the metal gleamed clean and bright, having yet gone without the taste of blood to see Ander Ottarson delivered into the halls of the gods. 

The disappointment was too much for Herleif to handle then, and his hands curled into tight fists as he struggled to contain his anger. “Why?” he snapped rudely, smacking one clenched fist into his open palm in frustration. “Why is it not done? The fighting we saw on the river was fierce enough, but now we have gone through a battle that saw a city brought to it's knees, and you tell me know that no one was worthy enough to earn Ander his rightful place in the next life. Granted, I realize these Pyre Knights are corrupt and vile creatures, but surely there was someone that gave a fight honorable enough for you to claim as sacrifice? Why else would you accept if you are just going to waste time?”

Without hesitation Skuld took the seax and shoved it against Herleif's chest, locking him with a stormy gaze, daring him to take the blade from her. There was no meekness in her strong stance, no bargaining or excuses given. Herleif snapped his jaw shut, knowing right then that if he pressed the issue further she would abandon Ander all together, and perhaps then the fight she had traveled with him to take part in.

“My apologies, noble Valkyrie,” he said softly, lowering his gaze in shame, “I did not mean to let my anger get the better of me. It has been a long day already, and I am weary of that which is not within my control. There seems to be too much of that for any one Jarl to endure.” 

Skuld held her stare unblinking for a moment longer, taking in the sorry state of the man before her in complete silence. Then just as quickly as she had offered up the seax, she slid it back into her belt at her side. Her body relaxed, the threat of retribution against disrespect evaporating between them. Herleif let out a strained sigh and met Skuld's silence with a simple nod in thanks. Then to his amazement, the stoic Valkyrie placed a friendly hand on his shoulder, and actually said the three most wonderful words a woman had said to him since this raid began.

“Need a drink?”


End file.
